


Return Engagement

by Misophonia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, F/M, Romance, Trigger Warnings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2018-02-18 18:44:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 59
Words: 201,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2358323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misophonia/pseuds/Misophonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty's back and, with his return, comes a danger to those closest to Sherlock Holmes. This time, that includes Molly Hooper. Sherlock proposes allowing Mycroft to secret Molly away until the danger has passed. Molly, however, has a better plan. This plan ends up being the catalyst which permanently changes the relationship between Molly and Sherlock. But is this a change for the better? And how will Moriarty's return affect everything?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock Denied

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of its varied characters. Sherlock is a copyright of Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss. I am merely taking their characters out to play with for a bit.
> 
> Additional Note: This story has spoilers for Series 3 and is written with the understanding that the reader is familiar with all three of those episodes as well as The Abominable Bride. You have been warned.

  _"There was a time when love was blind_  
And the world was a song  
And the song was exciting  
There was a time ...  
Then it all went wrong ...."

_-Les Miserables_

* * *

 

It shouldn’t have surprised Molly Hooper when Sherlock Holmes strolled into her morgue. After all, he was a consulting detective who solved complicated murders and regularly experimented on human remains in his spare time. Morgues were simply a part of his life, and, as such, he had been coming into hers for many years now. However, as he’d informed her two days ago that he would be leaving London for what he termed as his “foreseeable future,” she believed she had a right to be a bit shocked by his presence.

“Sh-Sh-Sherlock?” she stammered helplessly. “What are you doing here? Weren’t you leaving? You sent me a t-t-text—”

He gave her a condescending stare that did nothing but accentuate his astonishingly good looks and said, “Really, Molly, stuttering in my presence? I’d hoped we were quite beyond that unfortunate phase in our relationship.”

She looked away, trying to get a hold of herself. One glance from him had all but reduced her to a puddle of goo. Honestly, she’d hoped she was beyond this phase as well. Taking a deep breath, she determinedly straightened her shoulders and prepared to ignore the fact that he’d just used the words “our relationship” when speaking to her. It was meant only in a colleague sense; she knew that.

Besides, he was right. She had managed to find even footing with him at last and she refused to budge from that. Looking up again, she stared at him head on. “You said you were leaving. You sent a text. I still have it. Did I misunderstand?”

The corner of his mouth quirked up into a devilish grin, which he quickly tempered—like he had a private joke he didn’t wish to divulge. “No,” he said, walking around her and approaching the slab she’d been performing a post-mortem on for a Mr. Jonas Conners only moments before.

_No, he’s not leaving or no, I didn’t misunderstand?_ Molly sighed as her frustration built. He’d been arrested and held for murdering that Magnussen fellow. It was all very hush-hush and quickly dealt with, but John had filled her in. But, if that was so, how was Sherlock free and here now? It made no sense—even if he was Sherlock bloody Holmes. Sometimes, she wasn’t sure what it was about that man she liked so much. He could anger her like no other. Then again, when it came to Sherlock, many people could claim that. She would simply have to be a little more patient—wait like she always did where he was concerned.

Molly moved to plant herself on the opposite side of the autopsy table. She’d learned physical distance was key in maintaining a semblance of control in times like this.

Peering down at the body a moment, he lifted his head and pronounced, “Heart attack.”

“Directly correlated to smoking,” she quipped, with a mild glare shot in his direction to let him know she’d smelled the lingering scent of tobacco clinging to him when he’d walked past.

He frowned a moment before his usual indifferent expression popped back into place. Molly used the pause in conversation to ask the question she’d been considering since he walked in.

“Is it because of Moriarty? The reason you didn’t have to leave?”

He gave a stiff nod. “Very good, Molly.”

“Is he really back?”

“I don’t know. It’s possible.”

“How? You said he shot himself in the head. You saw it.”

“Indeed. Two years ago John would have told you he saw me fall to my death from this building’s very roof.” He leaned in across the table towards her. “But we know otherwise, don’t we?”

Molly bit back the well of emotion his words caused within her. Not only because it brought to mind the two very morose years she’d suffered with his absence, but because it reminded her that there had been a time when the mighty Sherlock Holmes had desperately needed her. No one else. _Her_. Her role in the faking of his death had been pivotal—he’d said so himself. She’d known it, of course; but having him acknowledge it like he had meant more than he could ever know, more than she’d ever admit to anyone—even him.

“What do you need?”

He seemed startled. She wasn’t sure if it was because those were the same words she’d used with him that night so long ago or because what her use of those words meant in today’s context. Yet, as Sherlock being surprised by her wasn’t something that happened very often, she took a moment to savor the feeling, like a victory. She’d never be as brilliant as him or as fiercely brave as John or as respectable as Lestrade or as stunning and mysterious as that woman Sherlock favored, but Molly liked the idea that she could make an impression with the consulting detective just the same.

He recovered quickly. “Mycroft is going to have you taken to a secure location until this is over. In the meantime—”

“No.”

Sherlock was startled again. This time she knew why. His eyes narrowed. “No?”

It took every bit of gumption she had to maintain his stare. “No.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Moriarty is a demented killer who will stop at nothing to get to me.”

“Exactly. As long as he’s free, innocent people will be hurt. I want to help. I can’t do that if Mycroft has me stored in a safe house somewhere in the country. Besides, I refuse to be a prisoner. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“You helped _me_. That makes you a target.”

“John’ll be the target. He’s the one who counts.”

“We’ve been over this before,” he grumbled. “ _You_ count, Molly. You’ve always counted. This time, however, Moriarty knows it.”

She rolled her eyes. Sometimes, he truly was obtuse. Time to make her point in a more drastic manner. “Do you love me?”

For the third time in twenty minutes, she had the pleasure of seeing the usually unflappable Sherlock Holmes startled. This time, with the way he was gulping and seemingly unable to utter nothing more than series of strangled grunts, she was also fairly sure he’d swallowed his tongue. It would have been funny had it not proven without a shadow of a doubt that the consulting detective harbored no such sentimental feelings for her. That knowledge stung a bit, but not as much as it would have in the past.

“Exactly my point. But you _do_ love John.”

He got ahold of himself enough to arch a haughty brow at her. “He’s married and by the way, _not_ gay.”

She arched a brow back at him. “You’re the one who assumed I meant romantic love. I did not. In terms of people you truly care about, however, John is your lynch pin. Anyone with half a brain knows that. You told me once that Moriarty threatened to ‘burn the heart out of you.’ If he’s back, if this is him, it’s John he’ll come after. John’s death would be key to your undoing. Not mine.”

“I’d rather not have either of your deaths on my conscience, if you don’t mind.”

“You’re a sociopath. Sociopaths don’t have consciences, remember?”

His mouth quirked briefly with a smile before smoothing out into his typical bored sneer. “Mycroft won’t take no for an answer.”

“Are you sending John away?”

“No.”

“Then I’m not going either.”

He sighed. “It’s not the same.”

“Why? Because John is a man?”

“What? No!”

“Because he was a former soldier? That hasn’t stopped him from being kidnapped and nearly killed on more than one occasion from being around you.”

“That isn’t it either. Although we both know John is able to handle himself with a gun.”

“So can I.”

His eyes narrowed and scanned over her body as he took this information in. No doubt, he was trying to find something to substantiate or deny her claims. After two seconds, he said, “Target shooting on the weekends is not the same as protecting yourself in the middle of danger.”

She hated how he could even know that based on a cursory inspection. Worse, she hated how much his knowing that after a cursory inspection turned her on. It was decidedly inconvenient at a time like this.

“If it’s not that, then why not?” she asked, deciding to push.

He paused, as if searching for a suitable answer.

“Well?” she prodded.

“John has Mary,” he blurted.

That stopped Molly short. “She’s eight-months’ pregnant. How is that going to keep him safe from Moriarty? If anything, that makes John even more of a liability.”

A range of emotions flickered across his face. She was able to read frustration, anger, and a slight bit of unease before his customary mask of indifference returned to the surface. He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. From the way he clasped his hands behind his back and began to walk around the table towards her, she knew what was coming. The game was afoot. The sincere-looking smile softening his features as he closed in confirmed her suspicions.

Sherlock was intent on getting his way.

Bracing for the full impact of his significant charm and acting prowess, Molly hated herself for her weakness for him. What good did it do to know he was manipulating her if she always gave in anyway?

“Molly,” he started off pleasantly, gazing at her as if she were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. “Your safety is my primary concern.”

He shouldn’t have started off with a lie. Usually, he knew better than that. In this case, Molly counted it as a stroke of luck because it made her just angry enough to withstand the rest of his deluge of charm.

“I can’t focus on bringing Moriarty to his knees if I’m worried about what is happening to you.” He moved in for the kill, leaning in with that puppy dog look of his. “Will you do this for me?” He gave a slow blink, widening his eyes ever so slightly. “Please?”

“No.”

That one word and everything dropped. His expression flattened, he moved back, and his arms crossed in front of his chest. She would have sighed in relief, but she didn’t want to give away that she knew what he was about. Sherlock already knew too much about her and her thoughts as it was.

“I don’t require your consent, you know. One phone call, and you’ll be gone.”

“Sherlock Holmes, threaten me again and the next body part I hand you will be your own.”

That left him stumped, but not for long. “What about Meena? Do you really want to put her life in danger because of your recklessness?”

He had her there and, from the smirk on his face, he knew it. She didn’t bother to ask how he knew she was living with her best friend—had been ever since she’d ended it with Tom and moved out of the joint flat they’d found.

“There, now,” he said, popping the collar on his coat as he did whenever he got ready to sweep from a room.

Honestly, it always reminded her of a little boy flapping his play cape behind him when he did that. Sherlock Holmes had a superhero complex. Not that she ever planned to share that particular theory with him.

“Glad we could see eye to eye on this, Molly. If you’d like, I can have Mycroft have your friend taken with you. It’ll give you some company while you’re away.” With a regal nod, he turned and headed for the door.

Her brain scrambled for ideas. A crazy one came to mind. He’d never agree to that. She knew it. In fact, she didn’t agree with it. It was the most ridiculous idea ever.

In the end, it was that coupled with the fact that he was leaving which made her blurt it out.

He stopped short and flipped about. She noticed his mobile was already against his ear. “I'll ring back,” he barked into the phone before closing the distance between he and Molly. “What was that?”

“I could live with you.”

“Live … with _me_? You?”

Any meager hope that had been holding on in her heart that the man in front of her harbored any kind of romantic notions towards her was crashed like a ship against rocks in a storm. Still, this was about her freedom, not him. He’d never agree to this, but he also wouldn’t be sending her packing to the nearest no man’s land either. That was a win enough for her.

His eyes narrowed, their ethereal glow taking her in in a way that always left her feeling naked. Once, just once, she’d like to do that to him. Let him know how it felt.

“You don’t mean that,” he finally pronounced.

She gave a half-hearted shrug. “I can stay in John’s old room. Mycroft has your flat under surveillance. You’ve complained about that to me more than once. Seems like it would be the safest place for me to be while still being able to maintain a semblance of my life. It’s not ideal, but it’ll get the job done.”

“Molly.” He took a step towards her. “I’m married to my work. Always will be.”

That felt like a slap in the face. As if she didn’t know exactly how much he didn’t return her feelings. As if she needed the reminder. As if she didn’t see it in every conversation they had, in every look he didn’t return, in every opportunity he had had all these years that he’d never taken. She’d made her peace with the fact that Sherlock would never love her. She’d been determined to move on. In the two years he’d been gone, she’d worked hard to do just that. In her relationship with Tom, she’d thought she’d succeeded. Its demise, however, said otherwise.

She hated that the most. How unfair was this? How long would she be tortured this way? At what point would she fall out of love with this man? Maybe living with him, seeing him day in and day out would be the key to finally breaking that particular spell. At this juncture, she would do anything.

She cocked her chin up at him. “Me, too.”

“You’re married to your work?” he asked in disbelief.

“Absolutely. Do you have a problem with that?”

He slowly shook his head, still gazing at her, uncertain.

“Then we have a deal, don’t we?”

He nodded.

“Good,” she said. “I’ll move in tomorrow. You can go now. I have work to finish.” She turned her back on him for good measure. Something in the rude gesture left her feeling surprisingly good.

As she removed Mr. Conners’ heart and set about weighing it, she felt Sherlock’s presence in the room. Lord only knew what he was thinking. No doubt, he was studying her and trying to figure out when she’d gone certifiable. Molly told herself she didn’t care, but she did. It was only when he finally swept from the room and she was left alone that she allowed what she’d just agreed to do to really sink it. Then, of course, the panic swiftly followed.

“Dear Lord, what on earth have I done?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I hope you enjoy this and will hang on to what will likely be a wild ride into Sherlolly sentiment. I will also warn you that I have read very little of the Arthur Conan Doyle books. I do know the canon of the show and will try to keep it to that, but this story is never going to be as good as anything the spectacular Moffat and Gatiss could come up with. Moreover, I don’t particularly like writing thrilling action sequences and murder plots; so forgive me for any less-than-stellar stuff in that area I happen to include here.


	2. No Shit, Sherlock

He never should have let her slap him.

Looking back, Sherlock knew this must have been where he'd gone wrong with Molly Hooper. One innocent visit to a drug den in the name of a case, and he'd lost his tightly-held control in their interactions. The second her hand struck his cheek, something between them changed. A power shifted. The enigmatic persona in which he typically cloaked himself was stripped away. He'd tried to hold tight to it, but she only struck him again and again until he was reduced to little more than a pathetic junkie.

In those minutes, the others in the room faded away. There was nothing but him and one furious pathologist. Molly could see him, the failings, the loneliness, the lies and the fears. Not all of them, of course, but certainly more than suited his comfort level. The intimacy of the moment was startling. Worse, instead of ignoring him, turning her back on him, or even defending him in that nurturing way of hers, she'd gotten in his face, reprimanded him with the shrill tone he'd never before heard her use, and demanded he apologize.

The little kitten had transformed into a roaring lioness.

He'd hit her back. Not physically, of course. No, physical violence was always a last resort. There were easier, less messy ways to lay someone low. One sweeping glance was all it would take to determine weaknesses and a point of attack. A few, rapid-fire deductions provided deadlier cuts than the sharpest of daggers. This was something he'd learned long ago, a lesson he'd never forgotten, and one he used to his advantage whenever he got the chance. His weapon of choice, if you will.

Sherlock hadn't needed a sweeping glance to pinpoint Molly's weakness. No, he'd noticed the lack of a certain ring on her hand the second they'd stepped inside the lab. The dark circles under her eyes denoting a lack of sleep and the framed picture of her fiancé missing from her desk filled in the rest.

So, when she finished her attack, he commenced with his own. This proved to be the beginning of the end. At his scathing words, the Molly Hooper of old would have dropped her head and scurried from the room for a nice cry in the nearest loo. But not this time. No, this time, she'd known exactly what he was about. She never broke his gaze. If anything, she cocked up her chin and called him out.

"Stop it," she'd said. "Just stop it."

 _Good for you, Molly Hooper._ He'd often wondered what would have happened if John hadn't intervened and turned his attention. Would she have hit him again? Would he have let her? Moreover, why had he allowed her strike him in the first place? Even as high as he was, his reflexes weren't that compromised. He could have easily dodged her blows.

 _Then, why didn't you?_ Did it perhaps have something to do with the inordinate amount of pride he'd felt for her then? He ignored the preposterous turn of his thoughts because he already knew the answer. He'd deserved her reprimands and the sting her blows had wrought.

_How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with! And how dare you betray the love of your friends!_

With those words, she'd cut him to the quick worse than he'd ever done to anyone. It was the fear in her tone, in her eyes that did him in. She was scared, genuinely scared for him. And that's when he understood she loved him—truly loved him. Not that nonsensical notion of love and romance people tried to talk themselves into feeling that could never be realistically maintained. No, she was actually in love with him. _All_ of him. Not just the persona he'd carefully cultivated over the years. Not just his brilliance. Not just his socially-coveted Patrician features, eyes, and height people talked about all the time. No, Molly loved him in spite of her fear, in spite of his reckless actions, and often churlish behavior, and in spite of numerous times he'd tried to prove to her that he could never love her back. Not like that. Never like that.

Sherlock hadn't wanted that knowledge, hadn't wanted that particular emotion from her or anyone. There was so much that came with it. Obligations, rules, priorities, compromises, guilt, sentiment—all preoccupations wrapped up in an emotion he couldn't even begin to process, much less feel. He'd told people all his life that romantic relationships weren't his area. He'd meant it. Why did no one ever believe him? He'd recognized his limitations early on. Why was acknowledging and accepting those limitations a bad thing? He had an intelligence that few could eclipse or even fully understand. He used this power for good—most of the time. But this "beautiful gift"—to use Molly's words—came with a price, one he was more than willing to pay. Sentiment and all the rest that went with being in love would only inhibit and weaken him. What good was he to anyone then?

He'd hoped Molly would move past her unfortunate regard for him with that new fellow of hers. The guy was a complete moron, of course, but one couldn't have anything. But she hadn't moved on and from the second she'd nearly taken the consulting detective's head off his shoulders, he knew she never would.

"Sherlock, I'm popping out to the shops. We need a few things."

And now there was this. Molly Hooper was his new flatmate. A complication to be sure. He'd deliberately limited their contact after the slapping incident. He hadn't even allowed her to visit him when he'd been in hospital, even though John said she'd come by fairly regularly. Moreover, when he'd been ready to leave on his ridiculous M.I.6 suicide mission—his government-sanctioned punishment for killing the repellent Charles Augustus Magnussen—he'd given her nothing more than a one-line text message as a final goodbye.

How had things gotten so out of hand? He should never have come to see Molly after he'd been freed. He still hadn't managed to pin down why he hadn't simply allowed Mycroft to fetch her. It was certainly the logical answer. She would be safe and out of the way. The best of everything in one, fell swoop.

Yet, he'd gone against reason and visited her and, somehow, she went from being the woman from whom he must keep his distance to the woman with whom he must share his flat. In fact, this particular woman was proving to be more troublesome than _the_ woman ever was.

"I know we're out of milk, sugar, eggs, and bread. Was there anything else?" Molly peered down at the list she was holding. It was the same one she'd carefully made out only this morning on pink, flowery stationary and left attached to the fridge by a giant kitty magnet that read "Hang In There."

"Oh, shampoo!" she said, darting into the loo.

Kitty magnets? This is what he was reduced to? Honestly, having that blasted girly ornament put on display in his kitchen was almost worse than Molly being in love with him. Then, there were the distinctly feminine undergarments she washed out and left hanging in their shared lavatory. They shouldn't have bothered him. They weren't lacy, black numbers or anything with an electric purple animal print like Janine had seemed to favor. No, these were sensible cotton pants in spring pastels and cream-colored bras with tiny, pink bows sewn into the very middle.

Molly, it seemed, dressed like a little girl even when it came to her underwear. He wasn't sure if that was pathetic or endearing, and he refused to mull on it for too long for fear of what the answer might actually be. No, he did what any logical man would do when faced with such an issue. He developed a plan and went about putting it into action. The problem was it didn't exactly work. Instead, it only served to highlight his lack of control in dealing with the infatuated pathologist.

"I play the violin at all hours, Molly. It helps me think."

"I find classical music soothing. The flute is my favorite instrument, but the violin is nice as well."

"I often get bored. One time, I got so bored I shot holes in the lounge wall."

A small smile quirked the corner of her mouth. "I'm sure the wall had it coming."

He'd frowned then. Was that a joke? Was she attempting to inject humor into a situation where trepidation was warranted? What was wrong with her? John, as he remembered, had been particularly riled about that incident. Likewise, Mrs. Hudson took three-times his normal amount of rent for the next month in order to cover the damage. (Even though a bomb detonated from next door three minutes later had done far more damage than he ever had.)

"John often complained about his lack of privacy while living here. I've been known to go through personal belongings without permission or barge into a room without knocking."

She'd shrugged. "You already rifled through my personal belongings when you stayed with me after faking your death, remember? This is your flat, Sherlock. Go wherever you like. If you see me naked, I won't mind."

That left him completely stumped until he considered that she'd lived on her own before and had a strange predilection to mentally-disturbed men—especially the high functioning ones. Evidently he was going about this the wrong way.

He retreated to the comfort of his mind palace to devise a new plan. Unfortunately, the second one seemed to fail more dismally than the first. Operation: Ignore Molly was only in its first hours of employ when he realized that.

While his ability to withdraw mentally had often driven John to distraction, it had a decidedly different effect on Molly. It calmed her. More often than he cared to remember, he'd come out of his thoughts to see how much his ignoring her was hurting her feelings, only to find her sitting beside him on the sofa, reading. How had she gotten there? Didn't she realize he didn't like people near him when he was in deep contemplation? She wasn't touching him. There was that blessing, at least. In fact, she'd planted herself on the opposite side of the sofa, curled her feet up under herself, and seemed engrossed in some kind of vapid science fiction novel. If he didn't know better, he would have thought _she_ was ignoring _him_. Why that annoyed him, he didn't know.

"You believe in zombies?" he asked, unable to not notice the abundance of the walking undead wielding swords pictured on the cover. _Absurd._

She didn't respond. Instead, she gave a mild chuckle over something she read, turned the page, and settled back against the cushions with a soft, contented little sigh that left a strangely heady feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Molly?"

"Mmm?"

Did she look at him when she finally deemed to answer? No, she just kept staring at her book with that silly, bemused expression on her face. She obviously lacked common decency. That galled him more than anything else. He knew Molly was, at times, more socially awkward than he was, but surely she knew better than this? It was rude, plain and simple.

"As a highly educated health professional, your time would be better spent reading medical journals than drivel written about creatures that in no way could logically exist, much less utilize Japanese Samurai swords. Why not use a gun? It's certainly more efficient. For that matter, why use a weapon at all? Isn't the point of being a zombie to subdue a live human so you can consume their brains fresh? Is that why they use the swords? Is it like a transportable tin opener for the skull?"

"Would you like to read the book when I'm finished?"

"What? No! Why would you think such a thing?"

"It's just … you seem to have a lot of questions … about the plot."

It wasn't just her quietly-voiced reply that left him frustrated. It was also the fact that she delivered it looking him straight in the face, her brown eyes filled with mirth. _Now she's mocking me?_

No, the second plan was a dismal failure all right. Likewise, his experiments littering the kitchen, his general lack of concern in the areas of household cleaning, and all the other little things that used to reduce John Watson to a fount of righteous indignation seemed to have no effect on Molly Hooper at all. Even the oozing foot he'd placed deliberately next to her yogurt in the fridge had gotten little reaction. She'd wrapped the decomposing limb in cling film and placed it in the bottom refrigerator bin, which she'd labeled "Medical Waste." Moreover, she refused to give him any additional specimens to experiment on until he promised to keep all items to the bin. It was humiliating, that.

So, after seven days of careful planning, brilliant execution, and abysmal failure, Sherlock Holmes was feeling desperate. Something had to be done and soon. Molly's love for him was giving her inordinate amounts of tolerance where he was concerned, and it needed to cease. She must be made to come to her senses and agree to Mycroft taking her away. Far away. Immediately. For her safety, of course. Thus, there really was only one thing to be done.

"Ready to go?"

He looked up, more relieved than he would have ever admitted out loud. "Oh, John. There you are. Where have you been?"

"You texted me an hour ago."

"Exactly."

"You do realize I live outside of London now? You've been to the house several times."

"Irrelevant." His eyes swept over his best friend. "You had time to stop for coffee, one—no two—donuts and to pick up a prescription for Mary. Really, you need to better sort out your priorities. Cases wait for no man."

"How in the world did you know about the prescription? I took it back to her before I came here. You know what? I don't want to know. I'm going to ignore all of that and ask the question you still haven't answered. Are you ready to go?"

"Go where?"

John sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. "The case. Remember? Lestrade seemed to think it rated an eight."

He waved this off. "Barely a six. Butcher did it. Found out his wife was sleeping with the delivery boy. Lestrade sent over pictures of the crime scene. I didn't even need to leave the flat."

"Then why didn't you text me and let me know not to come? I wouldn't have driven all the way out here if—"

"Sherlock, it looks like you're out of toothpaste as well. I've added that to the list. Was there anything else? Oh, hello, John. I didn't know you were here."

"Hello, Molly," John said, distractedly, keeping a glare on the target of his anger. "Sherlock, you arse, surely you realize my wife is bare weeks from delivering our child. I can't believe you …"

Sherlock made it to eleven seconds before John put it all together. That was a good eight seconds longer than it should have taken him. Apparently, domestic felicity was making the doctor soft.

"Molly? W-w-what are you doing here?"

She gave a jittery nod and smiled. "I live here now. You know, until Moriarty is dealt with. Sherlock and I agreed it would be best."

John swung around to stare at his friend. "Really? You're living here … together … alone?"

Sherlock remained mute and waited, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. _Any minute now_ …

"Well, I'm in your old bedroom, of course, but yes." Molly gave a merry, but awkward laugh. "If you'll excuse me, I'm heading out. Give my love to Mary. I'm told the last month of pregnancy can be the worst. Swollen ankles, the incessant need to wee, constipation—" She broke off, bit her lip, and blushed. "See you later."

She turned to leave, but stopped when her name was called.

"Yes, Sherlock?" she asked.

"You forgot your purse."

The blood infused in her face brightened. "Right." She began to look around.

"Your bedroom."

"Oh, yeah. Right," she said, before rushing off to retrieve the article.

John wasted no time when she'd gone. "You can't be serious. She just got out of a relationship where she was trying to talk herself into marrying your lookalike, she's desperately in love with you, and Moriarty is looking to kill you at any moment and you think allowing Molly to live with you is a good idea?"

"I don't see the problem."

"You don't see the—Sherlock, even you can't be this bloody dense. Why didn't you just take her to Mycroft? She'd be safe, if that's what you're worried about."

"She refused to go."

"She refused to go?" John's eyes widened in surprise. "And you just _let_ her refuse?"

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and stared up at his friend. "What would you have had me do? Toss her over my shoulder and carry her out to Mycroft? Really, John? Surely such a stereotypical caveman-like reaction would have played right into increasing this 'desperate love' she has for me?"

"One phone call to Mycroft was all it would have taken. He has people who specialize in this."

Sherlock gave another wave. "I avoid Mycroft as often as I can. You know this."

"Avoid Mycr—This is the woman who saved your miserable hide by helping you fake your death. Or did you forget that? Without her, you'd have been well and truly stuck. And this is how you repay her?"

He rolled his eyes. John was overreacting. _Typical._ "I've already told you. There were thirteen possible scenarios when I went out onto that roof with Moriarty. Molly figured into only two of those scenarios and, therefore, I could have—"

"I'm going to talk some sense into her if you won't," John warned, his voice rising with every passing minute. Soon, he'd be yelling.

 _As expected_ , Sherlock thought. He watched happily as his friend turned on heel, intent on rushing the stairs, finding Molly Hooper and—

"Hold on." John paused and flipped back around, his face scrunched in concentration. He narrowed his gaze at Sherlock before scanning the room. Something seemed to occur to him as his expression changed to a scowl.

 _Not expected_. "Yes?" Sherlock asked, not bothering to withhold the frustration from his tone.

" _That's_ why you called me here. You want me to do your dirty work for you."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Found it!" Molly said, coming back into the room with a rush. "See you boys later. Sherlock, are they still outside?"

He rose from his seat, strolled over to the window, and briefly peered out. "Yes, they'll spot you the second you hit the sidewalk."

She nodded and, with a wave, hurried out the door.

" _They_? Someone is following her, and you're not bothered?"

"Mycroft's men," he explained, reclaiming his chair. "They follow wherever she goes. At a covert distance, of course. We don't want make it obvious that she has protection in case Moriarty is watching. But they would be able to intervene if anyone tried anything. They follow Mrs. Hudson, too." He grinned. "They've tried to follow me on numerous occasions, but often find themselves unable to keep up."

John shook his head. Then, something else seemed to occur to him. "My God! That's how you knew about the prescription for Mary. They're following me as well, aren't they?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He let his puerile chuckle of glee speak for him.

"You're an arse."

"So you have pointed out on several occasions. You should invest in a thesaurus if you are going to continue to try to insult me."

The spreading smirk on his friend's face should have worried Sherlock, but he was having too much fun in the moment to deduce the source.

"What?" he asked, finding his own mirth fading under this latest development.

"I'm going home."

"Why bother? Mary isn't in labor, you're already here, and a client is bound to show up with something interesting sooner or later. We can even play Cluedo, if you like."

The smirk morphed into a devious grin. "Oh, no, Sherlock Holmes. Your chickens have finally come home to roost and you're going to deal with them all on your own."

"What _are_ you talking about?"

"Molly Hooper. You're trying to keep me here until she returns so I'll talk her into moving out and going with Mycroft." He laughed. "Well, it isn't happening, mate. You've been manipulating and stringing that girl along for years. Deal with it yourself."

"I take offense to that. I have never strung Molly along. That would imply I have allowed her to think that I will one day return her feelings, which we both know I have never done. Furthermore, I have never manipulated her."

"Bollocks. She says no to you, and you turn on the charm. She cites a rule she can't break, and you start talking about how the color of her jumper brings out the gold flecks in her eyes."

 _It wasn't a lie. It did bring out the gold in her eyes._ _Doesn't John know anything?_ "You're making it sound like I lied to her. I've never lied to her."

"Then don't lie to her now. Tell her the truth. Surely she understands the level of danger she's in?"

He bristled and gritted his teeth. "I told you. I tried that."

"And?"

He swallowed … hard. "She said no."

"And you didn't try to manipulate her into agreeing?"

"You can't admonish me for that and then advise me to do it in the same argument."

John stared at him, long and hard. "Good God!" He let out a loud snort of laughter that filled the whole flat. "You did, didn't you? But she's grown immune, hasn't she? She finally withstood the Holmesian charm and somehow managed to manipulate _you_ into letting her live here. Good show, Molly!"

"Whose side are you on?"

"Hers. As I've said before, you're an arse."

"I'm also your best mate."

He shrugged. "Doesn't make you any less of an arse. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's my day off and I have a wife at home who desperately needs her feet rubbed."

Yet another brilliant plan foiled by Molly Hooper. It wasn't fair. "If Mary were here, she'd help me," he grumbled.

"No," John said, "she wouldn't."

"Really? And why is that?"

His former best friend walked towards the door, waiting until he was almost to the steps before he bothered to reply. "Because she thinks you and Molly are made for each other."

 


	3. Always Something

“You’re not serious.”

Molly smiled tightly as she watched Meena all but bounce in the seat across from her. Usually, she found her friend’s rampant energy and over-the-top sense of humor endearing, but, tonight, it annoyed her. There were post-mortems to be done, and here she was wasting time. “I am serious.”

“What? Are you a nun? You’ve been living with the man for three weeks.”

“Yes.”

Meena leaned across the table as far as she could, her voice dipping to confidential whisper. “And nothing’s happened?”

“Nothing’s happened.”

“How can you stand it? If I were in your place, I’d throw Sherlock Holmes down on the nearest hard surface and shag his brains out.”

The mere image of the tall, leggy blonde attempting to do that as well as Sherlock’s accompanying appalled reaction had Molly rolling her eyes. “You’re being silly.”

Meena, the only friend she had to make the transition from uni to adult life, raised an eyebrow at this. “Yeah, me and the rest of his legion of fans. I used to think all those women screaming their lungs out over a bloke they’d never met were mad. It’s not like he famous for playing Dr. Who or James Bond or anything. Gorgeous, to be sure, but a minor celebrity at best.” She shook her head. “Still, to have my dearest friend living with the demigod she fancies and doing nothing about it … It's the chance of a lifetime, and you're wasting it.” She gave a playful wink. “Live a little for both of us, and just shag the man.”

 _I’d have to tie him down first_ , Molly thought grimly. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Then invite me over so I can have a go.”

Molly knew her friend was jesting, but the idea that she might be even a little bit serious annoyed her more than she was willing to admit. After all, Meena was well aware of Molly’s feelings for the demigod in question. “Believe me. One deduction from Sherlock, and the last thing you’d want to do is shag him.”

“Some women like a man to play hard to get.”

“He’s not playing. And he can be mean when he wants to be.”

“He’s not mean to you, though, is he? _That’s_ telling.”

Not interested in going down that particular conversational alley, Molly busied herself raking her fork through the pasta she’d purchased for lunch. So far, she’d done little more than separate it into its base parts. There was a bed of noodles surrounded by little hills of tomatoes, peppers, and chicken. The tomatoes were by far the biggest pile. She made a mental note of that and kept at it.

“Come on,” Meena implored. “You used to love talking about him.”

As there was no adequate reply to that, Molly kept her attention and eyes on the plate before her. She made a fourth pile for onions, not caring that she probably looked like a fool doing so. This dissection and analysis was by far healthier for her than the one Meena was attempting.

“Molls, you said he’s been better with you since he came back from the dead. He treats you with more respect. He even took you out with him on a few cases.” Meena released a dreamy sigh. “Sounds like progress to me.”

 _Yes_ , Molly thought, _before everything went straight to Hell_. Not that she had mentioned Sherlock’s brief foray into a drug den to Meena or her violent reaction when he tested positive for heroin. Or, for that matter, any of the other myriad of shocking things Sherlock had either done or had done to him in the intervening months. Getting high, getting shot, escaping from hospital, nearly dying and coming back, shooting Magnussen, and leaving London—only to not leave after all. Honestly, the man’s life often ran like _EastEnders_. Still, it was his life and some things were better left private.

“Is it Tom? I thought you were glad you broke it off with him.”

“I am. It was the right thing to do.”

“Then what’s the problem? You know what they say. The best way to get over an old man is to get under a new one! And you can’t worry that Sherlock’s just a rebound fellow because you liked him even before you met Tom.”

 _If that was supposed to make me feel better, you should try harder, Meena._ But she kept that thought to herself. No need to hurt anyone’s feelings. “Sherlock doesn’t do relationships, and I don’t do one-night stands—especially with a flatmate. Now do you understand?” _There. A nice, reasonable answer to end this discussion once and for all._

“Of course he does relationships. Remember? He had the torrid affair with that girl. It was all over the papers. He’s got quite a kinky side apparently. What was the girlfriend’s name? Jessica? Jenny?”

“Janine,” Molly ground out, returning her attention to sorting the items on her plate. She now added counting to the sorting. Best to keep her mind occupied on things other than the sordid stories reported in the tabloids.

“Hit a sore spot, did I?”

Unable to concentrate anymore, Molly threw her fork down and pasted on a smile. “So, how’s life? Still seeing Carter?”

Meena’s eyes narrowed as if she were studying her. “C’mon, Molls. Talk to me. We don’t do that anymore. Not since you moved in with the demigod. You won’t let me come round, you barely ring me—even though I’ve rang you again and again—and you only agreed to meet me because I guilted you into it. You even made me come to Bart’s to see you even though you know how much this place depresses me.” She looked around the stark cafeteria they were currently inhabiting and gave a delicate shudder. “It’s not even proper time for eating. It’s nearly half eleven at night. I’ll never know how you stand working here. Not an ounce of cheer to be found anywhere. And the hours. Ghastly!”

“I love my job. We’ve been over this. And, as far as why I haven’t rung you back, it’s because I’ve been busy.” Molly knew it wasn’t the best excuse in the world. It wasn’t even the truth, but telling Meena the truth would only lead to more questions, questions Molly didn’t want to think about, much less answer.

“You never used to be too busy for me. I used to be the busy one. What’s happened to us? Now you’re living with the posh detective, and I’m stuck with …” She paled a bit and looked away. “Well, it doesn’t matter.”

Molly immediately felt guilty. She hadn’t been holding up her side of the friendship for a while. There were clearly things going on with Meena, things she needed to talk through. “Tell me about Carter,” she urged. “Last time we chatted, you said things were getting serious. Any news?”

Her friend kept staring before releasing a heavy sigh. “Fine.” She jerked back from the table and settled against her chair, arms crossed over the heaving bosom Molly had envied on more than one occasion. “It’s fine. No news, yet. He wanted to take me to the pub earlier to watch a football match on telly with his friends. But you know how I am. Always have to keep the men dangling.” She laughed at her little joke. “Besides, I wanted to spend some time with you. And now here I am, wasting a perfectly good shagging night trying to get my best friend to talk to me.”

“I’m sorry. There’s just nothing to say about—” Molly stopped when her phone chimed in her pocket. Reaching into her lab coat, she read the text she’d just been sent. _Really? Now?_ She hated the delicious zing of excitement that hit her and put the mobile away. “I have to go.”

“What? Now? You only just got here. Surely they let you take longer than a twenty-minute meal break.”

“I have work piling up.”

“You cut up dead people. I think they can wait.”

Molly’s phone chimed again. She pulled it out again to read the message, already aware of who was sending it and what it said. “I’m sorry. I do need to dash. Can we perhaps reschedule? We can go out if you like. You know, when the sun’s up and all. We’ll have hours and hours to spend talking.”

“It’s him, isn’t it?”

Her head popped up from the mobile. “Huh?”

“The _demigod_ sent you a message.”

“Wh-why would you think that?” Molly asked, hating how her cheeks were heating with embarrassment.

“You went from being all sullen and morose to grinning like an idiot in three seconds, all because you got a text. You only do that for _him_.”

 _Yet another failing I need to work on_ , Molly thought.

“I’m right then, aren’t I?” Meena asked, with an excited clap. “It was him.”

The mobile chimed a third time, the noise sounding almost as impatient as the person sending the message probably was. “Yes. He’s waiting. It’s a case.” Molly got to her feet, shoving her seat back with the backs of her knees. “I’ll ring you soon. I promise.”

Meena grabbed her purse and rose too. “I’m coming with you.”

“What? No!”

“And miss a chance like this? I want to meet the famous detective. Face-to-face.”

“Why?”

Tossing her hair behind her shoulder, Meena said, “I need to decide if he’s good enough for you or if he’s a certifiable weirdo. Can only do that in person.”

Molly could imagine how that particular meeting would play out. Meena would flirt and simper—her usual way of wrapping all men around her little finger. Sherlock would take one look at her, make a few crushing deductions, and the fireworks would go from there. _Nope. Not happening._

“I can’t. Rules. Visitors aren’t allowed in the mortuary without authorization.”

“Sherlock goes in there all the time.”

“He has authorization. He works with the Yard, remember?”

“You’re being—” Meena broke off and looked up, her mouth falling open in stunned wonder.

Molly knew that look. _No, not now._

“There you are.”

The deep baritone sounded from behind, confirming that the sinking sensation in Molly’s stomach wasn’t an overreaction. She closed her eyes and collapsed back into her seat in defeat.

_Oh, bugger._

 

**—RE—**

Sherlock’s eyes swept over the pair of them. “Since you’re obviously done with your meal, we can be on our way.” He turned abruptly and started to walk off to encourage her to move. Time was of the essence. “Come along, Molly.”

“Wait!”

He flipped back around. Molly’s dining companion had spoken. The blonde was currently eyeing him in the way that women—and more than a few men—did which often made him uncomfortable. _Good Lord._ There was a case waiting. Tests to be run. Didn’t Molly understand this? Hadn’t she gotten his texts? She hadn’t responded, but then again, he hadn’t needed her to. What he needed was his pathologist on her feet and following him to her lab, but all she seemed willing to do was sit there with her face buried in her palm. _What is that about?_

“You’re Sherlock Holmes.”

His attention darted back to the companion. “You’re Meena Chambers, and she is Molly Hooper. Now that we’ve made it past the introductions, Molly and I have work to do. Good evening.” He reached down and gave Molly a slight nudge on her shoulder with his finger. “Let’s go.”

Not the least bit offended by his dismissive manner, Meena smiled widely, one hand reaching up to grab a lock of her hair in order to twist it around her finger, which was painted the most alarming shade of red with delicate, gold filigree on the top. She giggled even though nothing remotely humorous had been said.

_Why do women do that?_

“You are a looker, aren’t you, Sherlock? How did you know my name? Does Molly talk about me or did you do that magic thing you do?”

 _Oh, dear Lord. Not this again._ “I don’t perform magic. I make deductions based on evidence and balance of probability.”

“Really?” Meena purred, rising from her seat and sauntering up to him. “What else can you …” She poked him in the chest with her finger, “deduce about me?”

Molly shot to her feet. “I think that’s enough. Sherlock, let’s go. Meena, I’ll ring you later. I’m sure Carter is finished watching the match by now and wants to see you. You can have a romantic night for two.” She gave a little wave to her friend before grabbing hold of Sherlock’s hand, trying to jerk him along with her.

The feel of Molly’s hand in his was warm and strange and surprising and made him immediately want to pull away. However, as the handholding also meant they were actually leaving, he meekly followed instead. Molly’s former dining companion, however, wasn’t inclined to be put off. A shuffle of footsteps, and she planted herself in front of them. She was plainly the persistent type.

“Well, Sherrrrrlock?” Meena sing-songed his name.

 _Is she intoxicated?_ Her eyes were dilated, but her cheeks weren’t flushed, her movements seemed steady and there were no other tell-tale signs of inebriation present.

“Meena, you don’t want Sherlock to—” Molly began, tugging on his hand again.

“Hush, Molly. No fair trying to rush off with him. He just got here. _You_ get him all the time. Let the rest of us have a turn.” She batted her eyes at him. “ _Do_ me, Sherlock Holmes.”

Molly rapidly released his hand, blushed, and hid her face in both palms this time. Sherlock raised an eyebrow again. Obviously, Meena’s last statement had a more salacious meaning. She also didn’t seem to care that she was clearly distressing her “friend.”

“Go on. Don’t be shy,” Meena said with a wink he found particularly repulsive.

 _Is that how I look when I do that? Preposterous._ If so, he’d never do it again. He didn’t care how much people seemed to like it. Whatever else she was, this woman was plainly not Molly’s true friend. The sooner his pathologist was made aware of that fact, the better. Yet, as he made this decision, he could all but hear John yelling in the back of his brain that it was better to mind his own business and keep some deductions to himself. But if Molly’s companion was going to ask for her comeuppance, who was he not to oblige?

“You work in a nail shop even though you have a four-year degree. You only went to university to satisfy the whims of an overbearing father, but you work in the shop because it feeds your incessant need to gossip and live vicariously through the lives of others. You have a dog, a black terrier of some sort. You’re thirty-four, but you tell everyone you’re twenty-nine and you’re considering Botox to get rid of the frown lines on your forehead—You shouldn’t do it, you know. The risks far outweigh the benefits on that one.”

“Sherlock,” Molly shushed. “That’s enough.”

But he was already on a roll and simply couldn’t stop himself. “You’ve never been married, but you desperately want to be—more for the actual wedding than the marriage part. Moreover, you recently had an abortion and the reason you are here tonight instead of with your boyfriend …” He paused, digging into the recesses of his mind in search of his information. “Carter? Is because the baby you aborted was not his, but you don’t want to break up with him because being with someone is better than being alone. Did I miss anything?”

A loud, prolonged hush filled the space between them. In fact, the only audible sounds were the distant hums of a few talking diners clustered in the far corner, the chink of metal against metal as the cooks stirred various dishes under the heating lamps of the buffet with inordinately large serving spoons, and a low, keening groan issuing forth from Molly.

Then, everything happened all at once. Meena broke into tears and fled the room. Molly elbowed him in the side and tore off after her friend. Sherlock was left standing there, holding his aching rib and unsure of what had just occurred.

“Not good?” he asked no one.

Looking back, he supposed the deduction about the abortion was crossing a line. Sometimes, he got on a roll and the deductions just made themselves. Actually, now that he considered it, that particular issue was becoming a bit of a running problem lately. But, if it was such a secret, why have a business card from the abortion clinic tucked into the front pocket of your purse? Furthermore, why not zip the purse closed? There was a bridal magazine in there, the woman still could have shoved it out of the way and zipped the thing closed if she really wanted to. Anyone would have been able to put two and two together and deduce all that.

As he journeyed to the lab alone, deciding to wait for Molly to catch up with him there, he wondered how much trouble he might be in for this. He didn’t need John here to know Molly was cross. Whenever John was cross, he’d take off and spend the evening drinking at the pub with Mike Stamford or one of his other cronies. But so far, there was very little about living with John that provided insight into living with Molly.

Sherlock squelched the slight trepidation clenching his stomach. What was wrong with him? Here he was a grown man acting like he was about to receive a keen scolding from Mummy. It was absurd really. No doubt, once she calmed down, Molly would realize he’d done her favor. Who knew how long that Meena had been using the poor girl? It was a miracle the threat of Moriarty had resurfaced and she’d had to move in to Baker Street. What might have happened if she was still living with her “friend”? He shuddered to think of the probable outcomes.

That was it. Molly’s heart was too big, too open. She trusted too easily. She needed to learn not to do that or she’d only get hurt more often. That was a prime example of how the woman undoubtedly didn’t understand when she was wasting emotion on the wrong people. Good Lord, she probably was disappointed or got her heart broken on a daily basis. How did she cope? Worse, how was she ever able to concentrate on work?

Well, no longer. He could be her guide, her mentor as it were. He smiled to himself as he entered the lab and settled down behind his favorite microscope. Yes, that was it. This was what he could do to solve not only this problem, but the main issue of her being in love with him. He’d teach her to rein in her emotions. Promote logic and limit sentiment. That was the way to be. Once people proved themselves trustworthy—then and only then—should they be allowed some access to your life and only then should you permit yourself to care for them. Mycroft would disagree, of course, but his older brother didn’t know everything.

Sherlock knew, by the time he was done, Molly Hooper would be a cleverer, improved woman more than able to logically navigate the waters of any relationship. There would be no more Meenas, psychopathic ex-boyfriends, or milksop fiancés. She’d be a woman in control of her own destiny, a woman who was a victim to no one. Then, she could just go off and fall in love with someone else, someone worthy of her.

He smiled, infinitely pleased with himself. Yes. A genius plan. He was actually disappointed not to have conceived it sooner. Then again, he always missed something. He’d made his peace with that fault long ago. It was just the way it was.


	4. Just Friends

The git was right where she knew he’d be, behind a microscope studying slides as if he hadn’t just trampled some innocent girl’s feelings into dust. Well, not _innocent_ , Molly mentally amended, but still undeserving of such harsh treatment. She slammed the door to the lab as she came in, hoping to at least put a jolt into his unruffled demeanor. Instead, all Sherlock did was calmly make a note in his little black notebook before replacing the slide he’d been looking at with another.

And, with that, any remaining guilt she’d had for striking him all those months ago was gone. He’d be lucky if he escaped without her hitting him now. _Wanker._

_Smug, beautiful wanker, but wanker nonetheless._

“Is this where you slap me again?”

Had he read her mind? Sometimes, it seemed like he could. Molly ignored his obvious dig as she shrugged on her lab coat.

Sherlock, however, seemed determined to remain in control of the conversation. “You’re late.”

“No.”

That brought him from behind his microscope. He peered at her as if confused. “No? I’ve been sitting here for almost fifteen minutes. You are _definitely_ late.”

“No, as in we’re not going to sweep this under the rug and pretend it didn’t happen. Do you have any idea the damage you’ve done? I couldn’t even get Meena to talk to me.”

“Good. Stay away from her. No need to thank me.”

“Thank you?” she echoed. “Are you mad? You reduced my dearest friend to a puddle of tears and you think I should be grateful?”

“Haven’t you been paying attention? She wasn’t your _friend_. I proved that. And, yes, you _should_ be grateful. I saved you a lot of trouble.” Sherlock’s tone indicated he believed himself to be the injured party. He went back to his slides, muttering to himself in the whiny tone she’d once found adorable. “Honestly, this is worse than John with his revolving door of twit girlfriends. Each one more tedious and insipid than the last. I tried to tell him they were hopeless, but did he listen? No. I don’t know how he managed to find Mary all on his own. A miracle, if you ask me.”

Molly remembered all the times John had complained about Sherlock being rude to his girlfriends as well as all the times Sherlock had wailed about John bringing round some new totty he thought was particularly horrid. She’d known then that it wasn’t merely jealousy which had Sherlock acting this way. It was more a protective measure he’d employed for his friend. Molly had tried to explain to John on more than one occasion.

_“What are you saying?” he’d asked. “That Sherlock is operating like some kind of x-ray machine for my girlfriends to see if they’re a bomb about to blow up on me?”_

_“Yes,” she’d replied. “Right in one!”_

John hadn’t believed her. Or, at least, he hadn’t taken her seriously enough not to stop being furious whenever Sherlock practiced his x-ray technique on the next unsuspecting prospective lover. Nevertheless, Molly’d always believed her theory to be sound. Could the consulting detective be employing the same measure with her? Why would he even care? Meena wasn’t a potential romantic partner; she was a friend. Sherlock hadn’t even bothered to deduce Tom in the few times the men had been in the room together. Truthfully, he seemed to avoid her former betrothed like the plague.

“You’re wrong about Meena. She’s a good person.”

He scoffed. “You think that about everyone, which reminds me. I’ve decided to take you under my wing. It’s time you had a proper education on how to stop your incessant need to see the world through the eyes of a Disney princess. That’s a liability which will get you killed one of these days, or, worse, heartbroken.”

“Did you just imply heartbreak is worse than dying?”

“Yes. So?”

“How would you know?”

That threw him, to be sure. She watched him, curious to see what his expression might give away. There were few gifts she had to combat Sherlock’s powers of deduction or his overall brilliance of mind. But there was very little he could hide from her if she was observing him like this. She always somehow managed to see beyond the façade he usually hid behind. It wasn’t a power she showed off too often. If he ever knew how much she could truly intuit from his expressions, he’d probably never come near her again. Thus, she often kept her findings to herself. Still, on more than one occasion they had proven helpful at giving insight into the mind and heart— _Yes, he had one_ —of Sherlock Holmes.

Besides a wariness in his frown, he gave nothing away. He opened his mouth as if to ask her a question and then seemed to think better of it. He returned to the microscope, busying himself with work. Molly turned away from him and went over to her desk. She picked up where she’d left off before going to meet Meena, who she endeavored to deal with tomorrow.

She was signing off on the third report when he finally spoke.

“I wasn’t wrong. Meena isn’t your friend. She uses you as a measuring stick. As long as you are lonelier and worse off than she is, she’s OK. The second you have something that she deems only worthy of her, she seeks to take it away.”

She hated how much what he was saying seemed true. How happy had Meena been to take her in after the demise of her relationship with Tom? She’d almost … reveled in it. Molly had thought at the time that it was an effort to raise her spirits, but now she wasn’t as sure. Still, there was more to it than that. Meena wasn’t perfect. No one was. But she had her good qualities as well. Molly focused on those and endeavored to get to the bottom of the rest when and if she ever got to talk to Meena again. “Don’t talk about what you don’t understand.”

“I understand friendship.”

“Really?” She looked up at him with a glare. “Does it matter that, in hurting Meena, you humiliated me or that you caused needless strife between two women who have been close for over a decade? Is that the actions of _you_ being my friend?”

“I never said I was your friend.”

This time, it felt like he’d slapped her. Molly let out a shallow breath and looked away so he wouldn’t notice the tears threatening. The silence between them was filled with a host of unsaid things. Molly clenched her jaw and dove into another report, fighting back the urge to scream at him, to run from the room in tears, or to in any way give him the assurance that his hurtful words had struck home. Of course she and Sherlock weren’t friends. How could she have been stupid to think so? Sure, she’d helped him fake his death, assisted him a million different times in a million different ways since she’d met him. But to the great Sherlock Holmes, all of these things did not make them friends.

She’d knew he’d never choose her as a romantic partner. That was bad enough. But all the time they’d spent together, all the work they’d accomplished, and the trials they had endured, she had at least thought she’d earned a place in his inner circle. She wouldn’t be his girlfriend, but she could be his friend. Somehow, she told herself more times than she wanted to remember, that would be enough. Sherlock had so few friends. It would be an honor to be considered one. She counted. She counted amongst his friends. That was much more than many people could claim.

Except she didn’t count. Not really.

“I’ve upset you?” he asked quietly.

She jumped, unprepared for the fact that he’d moved to stand near her. The body heat emanating from him brushed against her arm, causing the little hairs to rise. She gave a dismissive wave. “It’s fine.”

“Molly, I—You see, I—”

She kept her eyes firmly on the work in front of her. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Why would someone like you ever consider _me_ a friend? I’m just a … a pathologist, a work colleague, a pliable tool to use when you need it.”

His hand reached out, his touch nearly searing her skin briefly before she snatched away. “Don’t. Just don’t,” she said. She rose from her desk, shoving past him and walking a few steps away before she flipped about to face him. She needed the space, needed him firmly out of reach—just as he always was and how he always would be. Her frustration and anger towards him was growing, but there was additional amount aimed at herself. When would she learn? Maybe he was right. Maybe she did see the good in people too much for her own best interests. But was it really better to go around so cynical and apathetic all the time? This outlook had not served to bring him any measure of true happiness, had it?

“Molly, you’re important to me. You must understand that.”

“No,” she said. “No, you don’t get to lie to me now to try to smooth things over, fill my head with a bunch of rubbish about how I count when I clearly don’t. Not really. It’s fine, Sherlock. You’re not my friend. I accept that. It was foolish of me to think so in the first place. I’m not John Watson or Irene Adler or even Greg Lestrade. I’m just me. Boring, old me.”

“You’re not. You’re …” He clenched his eyes closed as though searching for the right word. Then popped back open to stare frantically at her. “You’re … just _different_.”

“I don’t have a problem with being different. I never have. It took me a long time to accept myself.” She glared up at him, defiantly, not daring to hide the tears welling in her eyes this time. _Let him see._ It was time he truly saw her. _Past time._ “But I have, and you or no one else is going to take that away from me. I don’t need you to tell me that I’m important or that I’m different or that I count. I already know that. I’m a good person. I’m smart—maybe not as exceptional as you, but I have my own set of talents. I can do things, understand things that even you can’t.”

“Molly—”

“Shut. Up. Now.”

His mouth snapped closed. Whether it was because of the vehemence of her tone or from surprise that she would speak to him in such a way, Molly didn’t know. She didn’t care. “You always have the last word. Well, not this time. This time, it’s mine. Let me tell you a few things about me, Sherlock Holmes, a few things your _brilliant_ _deductions_ have certainly missed.” She took a deep breath. “I do see the good in people. You consider it a liability. I consider it an asset. One look and you see someone’s every fault. One look and I see every potential. No one is perfect. Not even you. People make mistakes, they fall short, and they need second chances. They need people like me to see the decency in them—even in its smallest quantity—to remind them of that decency and to give them a reason to want to be a better person, to try harder. Otherwise, they truly would be lost souls indeed.”

She edged nearer to him. It was dangerous having him this close, but she had to make her point. He had to comprehend. “I want to see the goodness in people because, for all the ones I get wrong, all the ones who disappoint me or ‘break my heart,’ there is one who is everything I believed him to be and more. There is one who can overcome all the wrong he’s done and make the world a better place to be. My seeing the good in him, my trusting that goodness when cold logic would have told me to turn him away, made a difference. I will never be sorry for that.”

All the blood drained from his face at the implications of her words. She held his gaze, her chin cocking up at him. _That’s right. You_ , she thought. _People like you desperately need people like me._

She continued, not allowing him to speak. “Meena has her failings, but she has been my friend for a long, long time. The woman you see as a vain, hanger-on who only uses me as her personal self-esteem test, is also the woman who skipped her bio midterm our first year at uni to bring me chicken soup when I got the flu. She’s the one who talked to my professors and got them to let me make up the work I’d missed. She has her issues. She flirts to make herself feel more comfortable around men, and she doesn’t always think before she acts or speaks. But she _is_ my friend, one of the few I have in this world. And if you say one more word against her, I will throw you out of my lab and refuse to work with you ever again.”

With that, she turned on heel and left the room. She moved down the hallway, unsure of what this would change between her and Sherlock. Would he hate her now? Or, would this just be something else he chalked up to her naiveté and silliness? Whatever happened, she didn’t regret her words. She’d been right. Molly pulled her phone from her pocket to see if Meena had bothered to respond to the three texts she’d sent. So far, nothing.

 _Tomorrow_ , she told herself. _I’ll deal with it tomorrow._ The news of the abortion had shocked Molly, but not really. Meena was always one of those people who could never be truly satisfied with what she had. She was always wondering what was over the next hill, intent on finding greener pastures. Nevertheless, Molly knew Meena should have told her what she’d been struggling with. _I should have been there to lend an ear_ , she mentally chided herself as she entered the heart of the morgue and began to prep her next post-mortem. _She’s been going through all of this on her own. It’s not right._

She wheeled out the next body on her list. Black female. Early twenties. Suspected suicide by drug overdose. As she took samples and worked through her protocols, she put all of it out of her mind. Sherlock, Meena, all of it. This is why she loved this work. Not only was it always a mystery to uncover—she loved puzzles—but there was also the added comfort that came from protocols and completing the same pattern of steps in an attempt to reach concrete conclusions. Working through her incisions, little mysteries within the body were uncovered. _Pregnant. Barely a few weeks._ Focusing on the organs gave her further insight. _Last meal was chicken, rice, and vegetables._ Removing the heart, she weighed it. _Healthy. No former signs of drug-related damage._ The lungs, kidneys, and liver corroborated this theory. In fact, the longer she worked, the more Molly became certain this suicide was hardly that.

It was as she’d moved lower that she heard him come in. She sighed, putting down the scalpel she’d been holding and looking up at him. He entered the room at his usual pace, stopping only when he was a few feet from the long, metal table between them.

“I’m sorry,” he began, swallowing nervously. “I would … if you want … I would like to be your friend. Would that … be agreeable to you?”

A myriad of thoughts rushed her brain all at once, but only one made it out of her mouth. “Sherlock, if this is about what I said, it doesn’t matter. We don’t have to—We can remain as we were. It’s fine. I don’t want you do this because of a guilty conscience. It’s better if—”

“Molly,” he interrupted, a small grin quirking the side of his mouth. “I’m a sociopath. We don’t _have_ consciences, remember?”

She laughed. She couldn’t help it. Having her words from before so wittily turned against her was humorous. He joined in on the laugh, his rich, deep voice blending so well with hers. It was at times like this, when he was unguarded and so at ease with himself and her, that she loved him best. At times like this, she knew why she was destined to love him for the rest of her life. It all made sense. He was wonderful and good and caring and so, so clever.

The laughter ended as an air of seriousness returned. “Well?” he asked, his ever-shifting eyes giving away his nervousness.

“Yes,” she said, a light, happy feeling hitting her. “I would like that.”

“John will probably offer you his condolences when he finds out,” he commented. “He often complains I’m not the easiest friend to have.”

“I know.”

He gave a swift nod, his usual expression of seriousness sliding into place as he clasped his hands behind him and surveyed the body lying before him. “Lestrade has a case involving three bodies found in an arson fire. The building was condemned, and the room they were found in was locked from the inside and without windows. I’ve brought samples and need tests run to verify my assertions.” There was a pause. “Will you help me?”

It was his complete sincerity which left her smiling. “Give me fifteen minutes,” she replied. “I just need to finish up here.”

He leaned down, studying the female’s fingertips. “Suspected suicide?”

“Yes, they claimed drug overdose—”

“No,” he swiftly countered, “Murder.”

“Yes, I’d already worked that out. Fifteen more minutes, and I can prove it.”

They shared a look. Something glinted in his eyes, something she’d never seen from him before. It was an odd, almost feral expression. Not anger or frustration at having his moment of deduction glory stolen. This was something earthier, and strangely heated. If he’d been anyone else, she would have immediately thought he wanted to shag her. But this was Sherlock Holmes, and she was Molly Hooper. The day he desired her sexually would never come.

As quickly as it had flared, the expression was doused and gone. He cleared his throat, nodded his head, and told her he would be waiting back at the lab when she finished. Then, he swept from the room. Molly blinked, unsure of what had just happened. Whatever it was, it wasn’t what she’d initially thought. She knew that. That was ridiculous. She and Sherlock were friends. That was all it would ever be. It was fine. After all, it was more than she’d had a few minutes ago. She’d take it.

 _Just_ friends. That was enough. Wasn’t it?


	5. Baby Steps

_Odd_.

Molly was sitting next to him on the sofa again. Close. Alarmingly so. In fact, if he extended his elbow out by an angle of even ten degrees, it would brush against the edge of the lilac robe she was wearing over her Winnie the Pooh pyjamas.

As much as he’d been slightly disturbed to come out of his mind palace to find her thusly situated next to him on the sofa, she seemed unaffected by their constrained proximity. In fact, ever since their mutual decision more than a month ago to categorize their association as “friends,” any previous tension on her part in regards to their interactions had seemingly dissipated. On one hand, this was good as it meant their conversations were no longer stilted with endless stammers, misunderstandings, and awkward pauses, all of which drove him to distraction and made his already-impatient nature steadily more impatient. On the other hand, it meant a strange, new intimacy— _For lack of a better term, not because it meant anything else, mind you_ —had developed between them which he had no way of suitably classifying.

Sherlock Holmes was friends with a woman. _Very odd._ Not that gender played a role in his continuing incredulity on this front. It was more the idea of the word “friend” being used in a plural and in reference to _him_. Sherlock Holmes had _friends_? He’d only recently gotten used to the idea of accepting John in this role as well as all the rights, responsibilities, and burdens that went along with it. The idea of there being two people in existence willing to call him a friend and desiring him to do the same with them was nothing short of inexplicable. Then, to have this second person be Molly Hooper of all people…

 _Yes, very odd indeed._ While he’d quickly adjusted to having a friend in John, his adjustment with Molly was decidedly dissimilar. Perhaps it was supposed to be this way? John was his _best_ friend while Molly was just a _friend_. It was a logical assumption the two roles would feel different. It was one of the reasons Sherlock had been unwilling to agree when Molly had assumed she and he were friends in the first place. John was his friend. He knew how he felt about John. This was not how he felt about Molly and, therefore, logically, she could not be his friend. Adding “best” to the friend status certainly would explain the contrast in his feelings between John and Molly. However, the only way he could know for certain was if he had a second “just friend” to measure his feelings for Molly against. But whom? The answer came to him when talking to Mary alone the last time he’d followed John home post-case with promises of a quick fry-up.

_“Am I your friend?” he’d asked._

_Mary gave the toothy grin John always found ridiculously endearing, but Sherlock viewed as a clear manipulation tactic and said, “Of course. Why do you ask?”_

_“Well, you did shoot me. It’s a fair question.”_

_“True, but I also saved your life. Besides, you and John are a package deal. When I became his wife, I became your friend. Is that easy enough to understand?”_

Sherlock had nodded and went off to find John so he could tell him all about his marvelous discovery in the arson case and so he could avoid any prying Mary might want to do in terms of his new choice of flatmate. He’d not forgotten her unnatural interest in seeing him paired romantically with Molly. He’d wanted to forget, but he hadn’t. _Ridiculous. Not my area._

In the end, his confirmation with Mary had brought him no closer to understanding all of this friendship business than before. Shouldn’t his friendship with Mary feel the same as the one he shared with Molly? After all, they were both females, both clever and increasingly valuable in otherwise sticky situations, and both willing to tolerate his idiosyncrasies for long periods of time. Yet, the little area he had marked “friends” in his mind palace, while seeming to be a quite comfortable fit for the likes of Mary Watson, could not seem to house Molly Hooper. It was almost as if his mental image of the pathologist simply refused to stay where she was put.

It made no sense. It was also highly annoying. Sherlock had surmised that their developing intimacy— _Because there REALLY was no more apt word to describe it_ —somehow correlated to this friendship with Molly. But before he could prove his hypothesis correct, he needed to see how far this … intimacy … would extend. Therefore, he had concocted today’s experiment.

As a rule, Molly refused to sit in the vacated chairs in front of the fireplace. He wasn’t sure why this was and so far, he’d been unable to discern the answer from available data. Sherlock knew for a fact that the chairs were both serviceable and of acceptable comfort. He’d confirmed this by having Mrs. Hudson sit on them and give her opinion on their level of softness and support both in comparison to each other and by themselves. Furthermore, as with the sofa, neither chair would cause a person of Molly’s short stature to be uneasy in terms of keeping her feet off the floor. With the weather heating up outside, the fireplace was not in use; so it could not have been that the situation of the seats would make her overheated. So, he had no definitive answer as to why she wouldn’t sit there. And without additional data, he could formulate no further theories.

He supposed he could have simply asked Molly why she would only sit on the sofa, but what was the fun in that? Thus, he devised one, single way of gathering more information for all his current questions regarding Molly Hooper. His new flatmate had a preferred post-work ritual of showering, making a cuppa, and reclining on the far left end of the sofa to read for a few hours before bedtime. Thus, one evening when she was in the shower, he situated himself in the middle of the sofa, entered his mind palace, and waited to see what she would do.

Studies on space proximity in human beings suggest people tend to position themselves in terms of other people outside of personal space boundaries, depending on the level of intimacy established. As a rule, this is not a conscious decision, but one developed intrinsically during the formative years based primarily on cultural and familial constructs. For example, if one placed two strangers in a lift, they will naturally congregate to the opposite ends of the car. Adding two more individuals will cause the four corners of the car to become occupied. Add a fifth, and the person will situate themselves directly in the middle, equidistant from all other passengers.

Of course, the level of connection between the two subjects changes things. Lovers placed in a lift, for instance, would stand next to each other in the middle, just slightly apart. A mother and child would likely do the same. So, Sherlock decided to place himself not directly in the middle of the sofa, but slightly to the left, significantly dividing the space Molly usually occupied and increasing the level of proximity to himself. Thus, as he and Molly were not romantic partners, siblings, or mother and child, her probable reaction should be to take one look at the situation and innately drift over to occupy one of the chairs.

She hadn’t. No, he’d come out of a particularly long sojourn within his mind palace to find her seated in her usual spot, less than a hair’s breadth away from him. What did that mean? Was it because they were now “friends”? No, that made no sense. He felt confident Mary would have seated herself in one of the chairs. Why wouldn’t Molly sit there? What correlation—if any—did this have to this blasted intimacy developing between them? And worst of all, what did this intimacy really mean?  

This wasn’t odd anymore. It was frustrating and more than a bit disconcerting. It was also not very important. No, certainly not. In fact, he’d wasted far too much brain power pondering this as it was. He needed a case. Or, he needed Moriarty to make a move. Boredom. Yes, that was what this was. Otherwise, the trifling decisions Molly made every day wouldn’t seem so important. He knew that. Even now, his mind was rotting in his skull from inactivity and—

Molly let out a soft laugh and turned a page. He glanced at her and rolled his eyes. She was still immersed in the tale of the Samurai zombies. The second volume of the trilogy, apparently. In addition to the hoard of sword-wielding undead on the cover, this book had a teenager holding a boomerang with eyes as brown as Molly’s and hair an unflattering shade of hot pink.

 _Dear Lord_ , he thought. _First, she ruins my experiment and now this._ “How much longer are you going to putrefy your brain with that mindless drivel?”

Molly didn’t bother to glance up as she said, “Don’t worry. You can read this one when I’m done.”

 _What?_ “Why on earth would you think I’d want to?”

“Because you read the first one.”

“I did not!” _How does she know?_

She turned to look at him, a mocking little grin on her face even as her arm accidentally grazed his shirt.

“Really?” she asked. “I would stop on Chapter Thirteen, put in the bookmark to hold my place, and return to find it mysteriously residing in Chapter Twenty-Two. How else would you explain that?”

His eyes darted away. “Perhaps you merely forgot where you were or the bookmark slipped.”

“There is also the fact that it kept moving on its own. I would leave it in the kitchen and return to find it in the lounge. I’m not as good as you, but even I know there’s only one deduction there: Someone else was reading my book.”

He was developing a hang nail. _How unfortunate_ , he thought as he stared down at it. “You can’t assume it’s me. Mrs. Hudson is constantly in here. She likes to read. Balance of probability says it’s her.”

“She reads the tabloids, not books. And apparently, she saw you reading the novel in question on _two_ occasions when she came to bring your morning tea. I know. I asked her.”

 _Damn._ Clearly, he was going to have to have a discussion with his landlady about when to keep her mouth shut. He was cornered, but that didn’t mean he was about to admit to anything.

“It doesn’t change the fact that it’s mindless drivel. If you are so in need of reading material, I have several medical journals which will whet your appetite and not leave your intellect irreversibly damaged.”

The book rose again. “No, thanks. I’m constantly reading that stuff at work. It’s nice to rest my mind a bit when I get home.”

 _Rest her mind?_ How did one even do that? He shook his head in dismay. What must it be like to have a brain such as that? To be so blessedly monotonous all the time? He didn’t believe he’d know how to cope. Just thinking about it was tedious. He would have said all of this to her, but living with John and his recent run-ins with Molly’s temper had taught him it was sometimes better to keep his opinions on the subject of one’s intelligence or lack thereof to himself.

She patted his elbow. “I’m almost done. You can read it tonight. Be patient.”

Her condescension left him mortified. Worse, he was angry at himself for feeling an ounce of excitement at the prospect of reading that twaddle. What was the world coming to? Further proof his brain was dying more and more every second. Didn’t she understand that? He refused to be on the defensive here when the problem was plainly her. “Your pyjamas are ludicrous. Winnie the Pooh? You’re a grown-up. Dress like one.”

She looked down at herself a moment before declaring, “Grown-ups can like Winnie the Pooh.”

“Evidently, each of the characters embodies a different mental illness. Christopher Robin represents schizophrenia, Piglet represents Social Anxiety Disorder, Eeyore represents depression, Tiger represents Attention Deficit Disorder, Pooh represents an eating disorder associated with low self-esteem, Rabbit is Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Kanga and Roo represent Dissociative Personality Disorder, and Owl represents dyslexia. What do you think of that?”

“I think for a man who claims to be worried about mindless drivel, you spend too much time reading on the internet.”

_Point, Hooper._

Sherlock, however, was far from conceding defeat in this verbal sparring match. His stared down at the pink, porcine face beaming at him from the cuff of her pyjama pants. “Your appreciation for Piglet suddenly speaks volumes.”

“Remind me to buy you a stuffed Tiger for Christmas, will you?” She patted him on the elbow again before returning her attention to the book.

Now he was to be patronized _and_ ignored? _This is what friendship gets you?_ His frustration reached epic proportions. “Why are you sitting here?”

Molly jerked her head around at him. “Why shouldn’t I be sitting here?” she asked, appearing wary and abruptly uncomfortable. Just like that, the warm air of intimacy between them cooled. _Good._ That, at least, he understood.

Sherlock gestured towards the fireplace. “There are two vacant seats available. Why sit _here_?”

“I like to sit here.”

That was all she said. Like it explained anything. “ _I_ was sitting here.”

She blinked and closed the book in her lap. “Am I disturbing you? You were in your mind palace. I didn’t think you’d be bothered.”

They were getting nowhere. “Molly, you always sit in that exact spot. Every day. Every night. Why?”

“I like to sit here.”

Yes, they’d already covered that. Was she trying to drive him mad? “I was sitting here. You should have sat over there,” he snapped, pointing towards the seats.

Molly quickly shuffled to her feet. He knew from the way her face fell that he’d said something wrong, but for the life of him, he didn’t have a clue what it was. He wanted a simple answer. That was all. Couldn’t she understand? Not knowing was making him insane.

But she evidently didn’t understand. Without a word, she turned to walk out the door and up to her bedroom. _Not good._

“Molly,” he called before she could escape. He didn’t want to fight with her. He abhorred fighting with her. Sparring? Yes, he would spar with her any day. But fighting? So much emotion and talk of … feelings. No, he didn’t want that. Especially not with her. “I … didn’t mean to offend you in whatever way I might have done so. I merely asked because I wanted information. Why won’t you sit in those chairs? Is there a problem with them?”

She turned about. Her face was pale, her expression circumspect. Thankfully, she wasn’t teary-eyed. He wouldn’t have been able to fathom how to handle that.

“There’s no problem with them,” she answered.

Unquestionably there was. There had to be. _Why is she being so obstinate?_ He shot to his feet and went over to the one he usually occupied, flouncing down into it. “What is wrong with this one?” He wiggled in it a few times. “It’s comfortable, serviceable, and has adequate back support. Yet, you never sit here. Not once in all the time you’ve resided in this flat. Why?”

Her head cocked to the side as she regarded him as if he were acting strangely, which he wasn’t. 

“That’s _your_ chair, Sherlock.”

“All the furniture belongs to me.”

“Yes, but that is your favorite chair. Everyone knows that.”

Finally, they were getting somewhere! He pointed to the chair across from him. “And that one? You could sit there, but you don’t.”

“That’s John’s chair.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he examined her. “John no longer lives here.”

She shrugged, a becoming blush blooming in her cheeks. “It’s still his chair.”

Then, with this last bit of data, a wave of understanding flooded his brain. The deluge brought with it the usual heady sensations of relief mixed with excitement and supreme satisfaction. However, he couldn’t fully enjoy himself because everything was also tinged with something else. Pity. For Molly. Did she really think she couldn’t sit where she wanted? This was her home. She should be comfortable. Even though he preferred to sit in this chair, it did not mean no one else could do so. When John had lived with him, he’d sat here occasionally. Sherlock knew he wasn’t that territorial when it came to furniture. But Molly plainly had this impression. Where had she gotten it, and how far did it extend?

Before he could formulate how to deal with this, Mary Watson opened the door. “Knock, knock, you two,” she said. “Finally made it. Sorry we’re late.”

John came in behind her, weighted down with a load of sundry, brightly-colored articles. The most important of their bundles was swaddled in a blanket-covered transport device. Molly put down her book and walked over to greet them all. Sherlock didn’t bother.

John settled the carrier on the sofa and began the arduous task of divesting himself of the rest of his bounty. Sherlock’s gaze darted to the carrier, taking note of the movement visible beneath the blanket before turning to take in an exhausted-looking Mrs. Watson, who was chatting with Molly.

“I was worried you two might have changed your mind,” Molly said. “New parents, I’m told, are often fearful of leaving their little one behind, even if for a short jaunt.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind watching her?” John asked, carefully lifting the pink blanket away to reveal his daughter. He lifted the baby, taking the time to arrange her so she was length-wise in his arms, one hand covering the back of her head.

“I’m honored you would ask me.” Molly wandered closer to gaze at the wiggling, bald bundle in his partner’s arms. “I don’t often get to interact with babies, you know. Well, not live ones at any rate. Occupational hazard, I’m afraid.” She paused, as what she’d said seemed to hit her. “Oh, I’m sorry. That was—“

 _Oh, dear Lord. She’s digging herself in deeper._ “Molly, stop talking,” he said.

“Yeah.” She flushed, ducked her head, and gave a laugh. “Sorry.”

“How long will you be gone, John?” Sherlock asked, uneasily eyeing the infant as well as all of the baggage she came with. How many things could one small human need? He hadn’t been at all confident about Molly undertaking this particular endeavor when she’d informed him of her plans. Now that the child in question was actually in his flat, he felt decidedly less confident.

“An hour. Maybe two,” Mary said as she took the baby from John and approached Sherlock. Without any by-your-leave, she gently laid the creature on his chest. He immediately stiffened, unsure if he should move, but unwilling to jostle it. When the baby moved on its own, he had no choice but to cuddle the thing against him. He cupped his hand against the child’s head, as he’d witnessed John doing earlier, but beyond wrapping his free arm awkwardly around the torso, was unsure of what else to do. The frilly, yellow dress they’d put the child in bunched up around him, making things decidedly worse.

This did not stop him from glaring at the mother. “What do you think you’re doing?” he hissed. “Take it back!”

“No.” She grinned at him, unrepentant. “Abigail wishes to meet her Uncle Sherlock properly. Say hello.”

“I’ve met her properly. I came to visit you in hospital when you had her, did I not?”

“You also refused to hold her. She’s nearly a month old, Sherlock. It’s time to get over your aversion to babies. You like older children just fine. I don’t see the problem.” She removed his hand from the miniature torso and placed it on the child’s nappy-covered bottom. “Abby is going to be an important part of your life. Time to start getting used to her. Otherwise, you’ll hurt her feelings.”

He looked down. The fragile being in his arms rustled against him, tiny, rosebud lips quivering gently and blue eyes blinking back to him. “She’s a baby. She won’t care.”

“You’re her godfather. Believe me, she’ll care.”

“Shhh, you two. You’ll upset her,” Molly said, sweeping in to rescue him from the child.

 _Thank God_. He relaxed in his chair.

 Molly jiggled the infant in her arms. “Hello, darling girl. How are you? You’ve grown. I told you to stop that, didn’t I?”

She held the baby out in front of her, staring down at her as if she were the most delightful thing in the world. Sherlock was amazed at Molly’s grace in the situation. Her movements were swift and smooth. The only time he’d seen her thus was in the depths of a post-mortem. Then, there was her expression. He’d never seen her look so happy, so … radiant. At first glance, one would have thought the child she was holding was her own.

 _Beautiful._ The second the word entered his mind in terms of describing Molly, he shot to his feet, needing to put some distance between them. This was absurd. There were more important things to think about. He walked over to John, who’d been watching them all with a bemused expression. _Time to get rid of that._

“I don’t think leaving the child here is a good idea.”

“Her name is Abby, Sherlock. It isn’t that hard to say, is it?” John asked, keeping his attention on the three females still in front of the fireplace.

Sherlock’s phone buzzed. Text from Mycroft. As Mycroft knew Sherlock would typically ignore a direct call but hardly ever a text, he'd seemingly reconsidered his former policy of abhorrence for communicating via text. _I should send him a cake welcoming him into the new century_ , Sherlock thought as he looked down at the screen. 

_A baby and Miss Hooper in your flat now, Sherlock? How domestic you’ve become. What’s next? House shopping?_

Sherlock gritted his teeth and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

“What is it? Moriarty?” John asked.

 _I wish._ “No, my boorish brother. Unfortunately, Moriarty doesn’t seem inclined to engage me at present, a fact I find curiouser and curiouser as time goes on.”

This was true. Nearly three months after what most of Britain had termed as “the Miss Me Shocker,” the case was at a dead end. They had uncovered how the hacking had occurred, but were at a loss as to who exactly was behind it or what the overall plan was. Sherlock had his ideas, of course, but until another move was made, there was nothing to be done but wait. Patience was key when it came to the long game. Still, at a time like this, Sherlock was not above using the fear associated with Moriarty for his own purposes. “However, just because he has not yet contacted me does not mean he won’t. Do you really think my flat is the best place to leave your newborn child?”

“Yes,” Mary swiftly answered. “No matter where we go, we risk being a target for Moriarty. He knows John is the fulcrum for you. He’d be my main target if I were after you. You’d do anything to rescue him.”

Sherlock shared a look with Molly. Her eyebrow rose as if to say _See? John, not me._ He flicked his gaze back to Mary.

John looked decidedly put out. “Thank you, darling. It’s nice to be the damsel in distress here,” he grumbled. “I would like to point out to anyone who cares that I’m a war veteran and quite a good shot with a gun. I could save myself. In fact, I’ve saved Sherlock’s life many times.”

Mary waved this away. “Getting his hands on me or Abby would merely be icing on the cake. Twisting the knife that’s twisting Sherlock. That kind of thing. At least here there’s Mycroft’s surveillance and protection. Seems to me there’s no safer place in London for our child.” She grinned. “Maybe we’ll take a page from Molly’s book and move in as well.”

“No room,” Sherlock said.

“There’s always 221C.” Mary smiled. “Or we could take John’s old room. Molly could sleep in your bed.” Before he could even divine a reply to this scandalous statement, she continued, “John says you kip on the sofa when you’re on a case more often than you use your bedroom. Shouldn’t be an issue, right?”

Sherlock recognized a trap when he saw one. If Mary’s tone hadn’t given her away, that mocking grin would have done so. He narrowed his eyes to make his displeasure known. Mary winked in retaliation.

“I could sleep on the sofa. I wouldn’t want to put Sherlock out,” Molly offered, smiling down at the baby in her arms and clearly unaware all of the subtext. “At least, no more than I already have.”

“Mary,” John said, not missing anything as he shot glances between his wife and his partner, “we should take off if we are going to get back in a reasonable amount of time. I’m sure Molly has to work in the morning and doesn’t relish being up all night with Abby.”

“I’m off tomorrow,” Molly answered. “Take as long as you like.”

“Thank you again for watching her,” Mary said. “We have everything you need over there. I pumped plenty of milk before we came. You’ll need to put it in the fridge. Just heat the bottle up in some hot water and test it on your wrist before you feed her. She ate before we got here, so she should just want to sleep.” Mary came over and kissed her daughter’s head. “Goodbye, my love. Be good for your Aunt Molly.”

“Aunt Molly?” Molly asked.

Sherlock was pleased to see she wasn’t taking this aunt business any better than he was taking being an uncle.

“Do you not want to be?” John asked.

Mary interrupted before Molly could answer. “I know you and I aren’t close, but you’ve been John’s friend for years and I thought—”

“No, I think it’s lovely. I just—I never thought … I don’t have any siblings, you see—at least not any …” She looked down at the child in her arms and then back up at Mary and John, tears welling in her eyes. “Thank you. I’m honored.”

“Good,” Mary said, sending a harsh look at Sherlock. “I wish all our friends felt that way.”

John joined in. “We should only be a gone a few hours, Molly. Dinner at La Mancha, and then a trip to Tesco. Call if you have any problems.”

“Don’t let Sherlock make you do all the work,” Mary said. “He is, after all, her godfather.”

John added, “If he changes a nappy, make sure to video it. I promised Greg we’d send it to him.”

Sherlock remembered back to the time when his only friend had been a skull on the mantelpiece and he’d wondered if that were a bad thing. Now, he knew it wasn’t. After all, the skull never would have put him through the likes of this.

After an absurdly long list of dos and don’ts from John which consisted of ridiculous edicts such as “No firearms around the baby” and “If you experiment on my child, Sherlock, I will kill you,” the couple departed the flat. With all the trouble they’d stirred up since they got here, Sherlock was so pleased to see them go, he escorted them to the door himself and all but slammed it in their faces.

 Unfortunately, his happiness was supplanted with something else the second he turned from the door and spied Molly in her spot on the sofa, cooing at the baby in her arms. She stopped and looked up at him, smiling.

He was immediately hit with a swooshing clench in his stomach mixed with a sense of elation that, for once, had nothing to do with a deduction. The combination was unquestionably unsettling. Without making a conscious decision to do so, he smiled back at her and held her gaze, relaxing into the depths of her pleasant, brown eyes.

It was only when he realized what he was doing that he freaked out.


	6. Unsung Hero

Sherlock looked like he’d been hit in the face with a sledgehammer. Molly wasn’t sure what had happened. A minute ago, he’d been smiling at her. Was he panicking about the baby?

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll take care of Abby all on my own. You won’t be inconvenienced in the slightest, and I certainly won’t ask you to change any soiled nappies.” Just the image of that had her biting her lip to staunch her mirth.

He gave a stiff nod and zoomed into the kitchen with a speed she’d rarely seen—even from him. She looked down at the child she held. How could anyone be afraid of her? She was so beautiful. Most people believed all babies to be worthy of that adjective, but Abby Watson actually deserved it. From her chubby cheeks and blue eyes down to her tiny feet encased in white, lacey socks, she was the most beautiful baby who’d ever been born. The dress she wore and the flowery, stretchy headband circling her bald head only added to the splendor.

Molly ran a finger lightly over one of the child’s plump cheeks and inhaled. The scent of powder, mother’s milk, and new infant skin was so nice. She wanted to rain kisses along Abby’s face, but she knew that was hardly sanitary or something one couldn’t do unless one was the parent. So, she settled for laying the baby out in her lap, examining each detail.

A button nose, strong chin like her father; big eyes like her mother, ten little fingers, five currently curled around Molly’s thumb; and the sweetest, pint-sized grunts ever to be uttered in creation. Molly had never fallen in love so hard before, but she had with this one.

“You like babies.”

She looked up. Sherlock was back, standing at the edge of the kitchen, a cup of tea in his hand.

“Yes,” she said.

“You were made to be someone’s mother.”

She had no immediate reply. It such an unexpected comment coming from Sherlock. Moreover, it made her uneasy. She couldn’t agree with him. In fact, she was pretty sure she was the last woman who should be anyone’s mother.

“Thank you,” she said, finally. “I think.”

There was another long moment of silence. She filled it by smiling down at Abby, who was blinking sleepily back at her. Molly was so caught up in what she was doing she almost forgot who was watching her.

“Tom could have given you children. No doubt, he would have been willing to do whatever you liked in that area.”

Molly didn’t look up this time. Sherlock was fishing. She knew this tactic well. Besides the day when she’d slapped him, he hadn’t mentioned her broken engagement or her ex-fiancé. Honestly, she hadn’t thought he’d cared. She’d been very relieved not to have to talk about it. The weeks living with Meena had been exhausting because there had been very little time her friend hadn’t wanted to talk about Tom.

“I’m sure he could and would have,” she said.

Abby had drifted off; so she placed her back in the carrier. Folding the pink blanket around the baby, Molly picked up the carrier and set it at her feet before grabbing her book. Tucking her feet under herself, she settled into her place back on the sofa and started to read, intent on ignoring Sherlock and this conversation. Hopefully, he would find something else to occupy himself.

Even as her eyes roved over the words, she could feel his continued stare. These last few days especially, it had seemed as if he had her under a microscope—as if she were the most fascinating thing he’d ever come across. It was unsettling being in the spotlight of his attention for this long. He needed a case. That is what this was.

 _The sooner the better._ How else could one explain his need to know why she didn’t sit in the chairs? Why would he care? Moreover, how could he think she would trespass on something that obviously belonged to him and John? John was the most important person in Sherlock’s life. Always would be. He should be, and she respected that as much as Mary unmistakably did. Moreover, she was well versed on her place in Sherlock’s life. The only place she would ever have.

Yet, she had forced herself into this flat and even though he’d never complained about that, she’d never forgotten it. The second Moriarty was dealt with, she’d get her own place again and leave him be. Go back to being only Molly the pathologist. They would talk occasionally and do experiments, and Sherlock would show up with some exciting case out of the blue. Nothing more, nothing less.

He’d be grateful to have her gone out from under him. For her part, Molly would miss him—even with all the things he did every day that she didn’t understand or that irritated her to no end. They had developed quite a rapport as flatmates. There were times when she felt quite comfortable at his side, as if she belonged here with him. It was ridiculous, of course, but true.

She’d thought living with him would help her to stop loving him. If anything, it made it all worse. The awkwardness between them had eased, leaving only two people who seemed to understand each other quite well. Unconsciously, they moved around each other in the flat as if in a choreographed dance.  It was peculiar. Living with Tom, she’d felt like they were constantly stepping over each other. They’d blamed the lack of adequate space in their flat, but now she wasn’t so sure.

Additionally, Sherlock proved to be quite a considerate person if one gave him the chance. On her mornings off, he’d be up drinking his tea, having already poured a cup for her. She’d make toast—enough for both of them—and take her customary seat on the sofa. She never offered him any; she never had to. Sooner or later, he would meander over to his place at the other end of the sofa. Taking his share, he’d always promptly thank her. Then, he’d eat his toast and think or eat his toast and complain about some issue he was having or eat his toast and try to get her to spar with him.

Molly knew these sparring sessions were to alleviate his boredom. She didn’t mind because she enjoyed them. It was exciting trying to stay two steps ahead of a man of his brilliance. No wonder John had lived with him as long as he had. When she won one of their trivial battles—which wasn’t as often as she would have liked—it was always evident. Sherlock would narrow his eyes at her and look away, sulking, and swiftly change of the subject.

Then there was the talking. Oh, the talks they had! He talked to her about his cases. He would amaze her with his exploits and the adventures he and John or, sometimes, he by himself took on in the name of solving the case. Other times, he would talk to her mid-case. She knew she was little more than a sounding board during these moments, but it seemed to be exactly what he needed. More than once, he’d rush off midway through explaining something to her. Those were the times when she knew she’d helped him.

Likewise, there were instances when she took over the lion’s share of the conversation. Here was the one man who, instead of grimacing and asking her not to overshare the grotesque details of the day’s autopsies, curiously demanded to know everything. More than one night she’d stayed up too late describing the enlarged liver of one body or the strange stomach contents she’d found in another.

Lastly, there were also plenty of occasions that she shared her day with him only to find him gazing off into space, evidently having bolted into his mind palace. At first, she’d stopped talking, mortified that she would be so boring he’d felt the need to escape. Then, after a few moments of silence, he would come back to himself and demand to know why she’d gone quiet. She’d blush and after some prodding on his part, begin her story again.

There were annoyances to living with Sherlock, of course. His recent fondness for studying her was a good example. Also, the nonstop experiments he conducted on any and everything. She was convinced he’d tried to put something in her tea once. There was a inquisitiveness in his expression as he watched her which clued her in. So, when Mrs. Hudson bustled in to do her morning cleaning and started lecturing Sherlock for his inability to pick up after himself, Molly used the distraction to slip off to the kitchen, pour it down the sink, make herself a fresh cup. The disappointment on his face when she failed to show any reaction for the rest of the afternoon told her she was right to be suspicious. The next morning, to put a stop to such foolishness for once and for all—and also because the man had been on a case for four days straight without sleep—she’d retaliated by dissolving a high-dose sleeping pill in his tea. Twelve hours later, he’d awoken in his bed, stomped into the lounge, and demanded an apology.

_“You first,” she’d taunted._

_“You drugged me,” he seethed. “I’m a recovering addict. You can’t do that.”_

_“It wasn’t heroin or morphine. It was a sleeping pill. Non-habit forming. I checked.”_

_“You still shouldn’t have done it.”_

_“Don’t put anything in my food, and I’ll be glad to do the same. Besides, you needed the rest.”_

He’d grumbled and slammed back into his bedroom, refusing to talk to her for the rest of the day. But, he’d never again tampered with her food. When John found out, he’d laughed so hard he nearly fell on the floor.

Sherlock’s sudden movement away from the kitchen startled Molly from her reverie, bringing her back to the situation at hand.

Instead of taking a seat in his chair as far away from the baby as possible, he occupied the other end of the sofa. He sat sideways, folding his legs under him crossways as if he were a child. He balanced his teacup on his knee as he continued to watch her.

If he made one more crack about her choice of reading material, she was going to call Mrs. Hudson up here to prove he’d been reading the first novel. That would shut him up for sure. It didn’t matter that it was after eight in the evening and well past the time the landlady indulged in her “herbal soothers.” Molly had no qualms disturbing the old girl if the situation called for it.

“He wanted to marry you.”

 _What? Who? Oh, he’s talking about Tom again._ “It doesn’t matter now,” she said.

“You wanted to marry him, at least enough to agree to his proposal and to wear his ring.”

He was not going to let this go. “Sherlock, what is it you want to know? Get to the point.”

He frowned at her in the way he reserved for annoying clients. Molly didn’t care. He was the one prying here. Did she ask about his parents or his childhood or his impertinent girlfriend who’d been plastered all over the papers? No, she minded her own business. Why couldn’t he do the same?

“My point,” he said, “is that you obviously want to be a wife and mother. Yet, a man comes into your life who can provide you with all you desire and you reject him.”

“You’re wrong.”

“How?”

“Many ways.”

“How?” he demanded again.

She took a deep breath. “He couldn’t give me what I desire. I thought he could. I told myself he could every day, but he couldn’t.” She released the breath heavily as she raised her eyes to meet his. “He couldn’t.”

“What do you desire that he couldn’t give you?”

“Not what. Whom.” She held his gaze as she said this, daring him to ask the next question.

W _hom do you desire?_

If he asked, she would have told him. No fear, no stammering, no hiding. Simply blunt honesty. It would have been freeing to speak the words aloud. Of course, he’d meet her blunt honesty with equally blunt rejection. She knew that. How could he not? But that could be a good thing. Maybe blunt rejection would make her stop feeling this way. Then, they really would just be friends. That’s all she wanted. Friendship with Sherlock. They’d be good as friends.

He blinked and, bringing his teacup up to his mouth, he ducked behind it by taking a loud gulp. When he was done, he got to his feet, seeming intent on returning to the kitchen. He made it halfway across the living area before he stopped, his back to her. “Did you love him?”

A wound she’d been trying to heal burst open inside of her. Sherlock had no right to that information. He never would. “Did you love Janine?” she countered.

“No,” he said, continuing into the kitchen without a backwards glance.

She heard the delicate chink of the cup being put into the sink, the water running, and then his footsteps padding back to her. His determined expression told her he wasn’t going to stop his questions. He was committed to his mission—whatever it was—but she wasn’t interested in cooperating. So, before he could ask his next question or return to his previous one, she said, “You proposed to her.”

“Yes,” he said, resuming his place on the sofa. “For a case. I had no intention of following through with an actual marriage. That would have been absurd.”

That _would have been absurd_ , she thought. _Not the proposing to someone for a case part._ How fascinatingly lopsided his moral compass was.

Sherlock’s tone when he spoke was almost boastful. It would have felt no different than if he’d jerked open his pale blue dressing gown and shown her he was wearing a t-shirt that said “Proud Sociopath and Loving it!” But Molly could see past this. She knew why he was acting this way. He was warning her.

_You may want me, Molly Hooper, but don’t ever think you’ll have me. I’m wild, untamed. I’m dangerous. No one in their right mind would truly want me._

He was protecting her. Worse, it only made her want him more. She groaned softly to herself and planted her nose back in the book. Maybe he’d go back into his mind palace, and they could forget all about this.

 “Did you love Tom?”

Her gaze flew to him, but before she could even gather herself enough to form a reply, Abby began fretting in her seat. Putting down her book, Molly lifted the child up. “What is it, love? You can’t be hungry. Are you wet?”

The nappy didn’t feel full, but Molly decided to check just to be sure. Taking the blanket, she smoothed it on the sofa between her and Sherlock and placed the baby there.

 “You’re not changing her here, are you?”

 “Where would you have me do it?” she asked. “Your bedroom?”

He blanched. “Certainly not.”

 “Hand me the pink bag over there. It must have nappies and wipes.”

He completed his assigned task and scooted to the far end of the sofa. Molly let out a little chuckle as she looked down at a fussy Abby. “Your Uncle Sherlock is afraid of you, sweet girl. Grisly murders or vicious psychopaths? No. Soiled nappies? Oh, dear God, yes!”

Abby ceased fussing to stare up at her, as if she were appalled by the very idea. Molly laughed again and began unstrapping the tapes of the nappy. A few minutes later, the baby was all clean, dry, and soothed again.

She turned the baby to face him, but didn’t pick her up. “Watch her a mo’, will you?” she asked, intent on putting the befouled nappy in the rubbish bin.

Sherlock’s jaw dropped open. “You said I didn’t have to do anything.”

 “Either watch her so she doesn’t fall off the sofa or take this to the bin. Which is it?”

His blue-green eyes flew back and forth between the wrapped white object in her hand and Abby lying between them. Finally, he sighed and said, “I’ll watch her.”

She smiled. “Her name is Abby.”

Molly got up and went into the kitchen. She took a minute to wash her hands before returning to the lounge. Sherlock was looking down at the baby, who was staring back at him. His hand came down until one, long finger reached out to touch Abby’s hand. Tiny fingers stretched and opened before closing around him. Sherlock gasped in wonder.

Molly edged closer to them, not wanting to disturb this stunning scene. She wasn’t sure who was more wonderstruck: Sherlock by the baby or the baby by Sherlock. The two beings ogled at each other, all the while continuing their physical connection.

Sherlock’s head popped up as she got within his eye line. “Her grip is so strong.” His tone belied his amazement.

Molly smiled. “Yes, it is.”

He began to pull away. “Don’t,” Molly said, reaching out to stop his hand. The second her skin touched his, they both froze. There they were: Him holding the baby’s hand while she held his. Her gaze locked with Sherlock’s. If he’d been anyone else, she would have given in to the urge to lean over and kiss him. The moment more than called for it. But he was Sherlock. He wouldn’t take that well. So, she released his hand and slipped back.

He opened his mouth as if to protest, but closed it just as quickly, a frown marring his too-handsome face and Cupid’s bow lips.

“Sher—” She croaked; then coughed to get her voice working properly. “Sherlock, she’s your goddaughter. I know you’re not entirely comfortable with that, but it’s still true. John and Mary aren’t here. Just me. Visit with her. I won’t mock you.”

“I know you won’t,” he replied. “But I’m not meant for this. I’m not like you or John or Mary. Not my area.” But even as he said this, he didn’t release the baby. Instead, he looked back down at her.

“I never took you for a coward, Sherlock Holmes,” Molly chided.

One eyebrow arched at her. “I know what you’re doing.”

She brought her knees up against her chest and wrapped her arms around them. Resting her chin on them, she said, “And what is that?”

“You’re trying to cajole me into picking her up.”

She shrugged. “Don’t hold her then. Up to you.”

He stared at her, long and hard. “This will never be my area, Molly.” _I’m not Tom._ He hadn’t said it, but it was still there, between them.

He was warning her again. “Not my area either,” she said, squeezing her knees against her to staunch the pain he was giving her.

“Liar. As I said before, you were meant to be someone’s mother.”

“The longer I live with you, the longer I think I’m meant to be _your_ mother,” she said, hoping to throw him off center enough so they could stop talking about this. “You definitely need someone around to keep you from trouble.”

“That’s why I have John.”

She laughed. “So John is your mother? Boy, have the rumors about you two really gotten that one wrong.”

He rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the child between them. “The child seems to be salivating all over herself. Should we do something about that?”

Molly reached down to rummage through the bag again, coming out with another wipe, which she used to clean Abby’s face. Once she was done, Sherlock retrieved his hand from the baby. “She’s so small.”

“So were you once, I’d imagine.”

“Yes, I’ve seen pictures verifying this,” he said. “My mother has a particularly offensive one of me in the buff with nothing but a rubber duck covering my wobbly bits. It’s Mycroft’s favorite.” He grimaced. “I shall relish burning it to ash one day.”

 _Not until I see it, you won’t,_ she thought. “Don’t you dare. I bet you were a darling boy. Your mother would be heartbroken.”

When Abby began to grow restless and whimper, Molly picked her up. After a few moments, the crying became more insistent. She warmed a bottle, wondering if the baby were hungry. However, a few tries at feeding yielded no success. Abby’s cries grew louder and angrier.

When the shrieks reached a rather harsh decibel, Sherlock abandoned the sofa and collapsed into his usual seat. “Can’t you do something?”

“What would you suggest?” Molly called back, at her wit’s end. “She’s dry and apparently not hungry. I’m all out of ideas. I’ve even tried the dummy. She keeps spitting it out.”

“Should we call Mary and John? Or Mrs. Hudson at least?”

Molly rose from the sofa, joggling and shushing the baby in her arms. “John and Mary have only been gone an hour. We’re not calling them. As for Mrs. Hudson, I would imagine if she hasn’t yet come up here to investigate a baby screaming in your flat, she’s already asleep for the evening.”

When the cries continued, Molly added pacing to the joggling and shushing, something which seemed to calm the child slightly. She settled Abby against her shoulder, patting her back. Maybe there was gas on her stomach.

Another few minutes of incessant wailing later, Sherlock pleaded, “Do _something_ , woman!”

Without thought, Molly opened her mouth and started singing. “I remember when rock was young. Me and Susie had so much fun. Holding hands and skimming stones …” She past the chorus of “Crocodile Rock” and was deep into the “La la’s” before Sherlock interrupted.

“What on earth is that caterwauling you’re doing?”

“Elton John. ‘Crocodile Rock.’ 1972,” she said before continuing where she left off.

“Cease that this instant. It sounds like a cat was run over by a cab.”

The baby started crying again, reminding Molly of the peace that had come from her singing. “It was working though, wasn’t it?” she asked and launched into another verse. When she got to the chorus this time, she pulled Abby from her shoulder and stared down at her, dancing them both about gently. The baby seemed to like this when paired in conjunction with the “La la” section of the song.

It was only when Molly finished the song that Abby objected again.

“Well, don’t stop now,” Sherlock said.

Molly flushed, mortified that she had just done all of this in the presence of Sherlock Holmes. But the child in her arms didn’t seem to care about humiliation. Molly began again, reclining Abby against her neck and chest and patting her little back as she danced around the room. Sherlock was watching them both, a peculiar smile on his face but Molly didn’t care. Abby had ceased crying. That was all that mattered.

Finally, when Molly had started the song for a third time, Abby rewarded her with a healthy burp. This was followed moments later with an unpleasant warm, wet sensation running down Molly’s neck, shoulder, and chest. A pronounced, fetid odor came seconds later. The little gurgling sound following this wasn’t good either. Molly pulled the infant back to find herself the unwelcome recipient of baby vomit.

But from the silence coming from the baby in her arms, Molly knew she’d at last become acquainted with the reason for Abby’s distress. Cleaning the little one’s face and a few spots on her dress, Molly handed the child off to Sherlock, who protested.

“You can’t expect me to—”

“I do, and I can,” she said, peeling off her bathrobe ever so carefully. The white and clear puke stain had already spread over her chest and settled beneath her robe and into her pyjama top. The smell was the worst part. It nearly made her want to gag. “I have to get cleaned up. She should be fine now.”

“Molly, if this child vomits on me—”

“It won’t be worst thing that’s ever happened to you, will it?” she said, walking into the lavatory without another word. But before she shut the door, she could have sworn she heard Sherlock say. “‘I’ll take care of Abby all on my own, Sherlock. You won’t be inconvenienced in the slightest, Sherlock.’ And now look at me!” 

One quick bath later, she realized she had no clean clothes to put on. They were all in her bedroom.  She couldn’t run through the flat in nothing but a towel, and she was positive asking Sherlock to fetch her something was out of the question. Even if he agreed, she didn’t like the idea of him pawing through her undergarments and nightwear.

One of Sherlock’s dressing gowns was hanging on the back of the bathroom door, so she slung it on after toweling off, adjusting it so she wouldn’t trip over the excessive length. That was when she noticed the low, vibrating cadence coming from the living area. She paused, wondering what was going on out there. She thought she heard the baby crying while she’d been in the shower, but the shrieks had seemed to cease nearly as quickly as they had begun. The sound she heard now was clearly Sherlock’s deep voice, but she couldn’t really place what was being said. Balling her dirty clothes up, she slipped out of the bathroom and stopped short as she came upon the most hilarious and enthralling sight. Honestly, if she hadn’t already been in love with the man, this certainly would have done the trick.

Sherlock Holmes, the man who’d claimed babies weren't his “area,” was waltzing around his lounge with Abby in his arms … singing.


	7. Mad Dash

_Oh, for heaven’s sake!_ The second he realized Molly was watching him sing and dance around with Abby, Sherlock halted. He knew he probably looked absurd to her, and his pride refused to allow him to continue or to give a hint of the mortification he was feeling. He didn’t know why he cared how he looked to her. He only knew he did, and he hated it. Glancing up, he awkwardly held the child out, mutely demanding Molly reclaim her troublesome charge.

Thankfully, the charge in particular did not protest this as she was sound asleep.

Molly dropped the bundle of clothes she’d been holding and immediately took the baby in her arms, cuddling Abby close to her chest. But, even though she had the child, his flatmate’s attention was firmly fixed on him.

Feeling his mortification rising and desperately needing to change the subject, he blurted out, “You’re wearing my dressing gown.”

It was easy to discern that she was naked beneath the deep green material as well as why she was wearing it. Of course, she hadn’t taken clothes with her into the bath and a towel was not appropriate attire to be walking about in the flat. Therefore, she’d claimed his robe as a covering until she could make it back to her bedroom.

He expected Molly to make this explanation to him, but she didn’t. Instead, she blurted out something of her own. “You know the lyrics to ‘Crocodile Rock’?”

Unwillingly, a blush heated his cheeks. “You sang it three times in a row, Molly. Any dullard could have gotten the lyrics right after that.” He turned from her and, going to his chair, tossed himself down into it. “Never fear. I shall be deleting them from my mind very shortly.” _Along with the rest of this infernal night._

“You got the beat of the music wrong,” she said.

He glared at her. Why wasn’t she letting this go? “I did not. I changed it so it befit a waltz as I was waltzing.”

“Is that what you were doing?” Her teeth sank into her bottom lip. _Obviously fighting off a laugh._

 “Of course. I wasn’t about to hop around chaotically as you were. If one is going to dance, they should at least do it properly,” he snapped. “Do you not recognize the waltz when you see it?”

She shrugged and stooped down to place the sleeping infant in her carrier. Settling the child in, Molly rose to face him again. “Sherlock, there’s no need to be distressed. I found the sight of you waltzing with the baby to be lovely and sweet.”

 _Good Lord!_ Turning to stare at the empty fireplace, he groaned and slammed his head against the back of his chair. There were few words a man wanted to have used to describe his actions. “Lovely” and “sweet” did not make the list. “Abby would not cease crying. I did only what was needed. You were taking entirely too long in your bath.”

“You called her Abby.”

She said that as though it was something for which one should be astonished. “That is her name, is it not?” he countered.

Molly went blissfully silent. A minute later, however, she approached his chair and squatting down until she was eye-level with him, murmured, “I don’t know how to waltz.”

He surveyed her, long and hard. She was trying to ease his mortification by admitting something embarrassing about herself. He didn’t like ploys to make him feel better, especially when this particular ploy was actually working. Yet, through it all, he couldn’t help himself from asking, “Why not?”

She shrugged. “Mum died when I was nine. Only had my dad to raise me from then on. It just wasn’t something that came up. But you dance beautifully. So elegant. Any woman would be honored to have you as a partner.” She smiled as she said this, her brown eyes softening as she looked at him, which caused his stomach to do another one of those uncomfortable flips. He smiled back and sighed, his eyes roving over her face, along the graceful slope of her neck, past the delicate arch of her exposed clavicle, and down to the gentle swell of her breasts.

When he realized he was staring and what exactly he was staring at, he curtly looked away, fisting his hands around the arms of his chair. “Get dressed,” he ordered. “John and Mary will be back soon. You wouldn’t want them to see you like … that.”

“Oh … Oh, yes, of course.”

He felt the air stir as she shot to her feet and heard the light footsteps as she stumbled back. “Will you—”

“Yes,” he clipped, knowing she was asking if he would watch Abby while she dressed. At this point, he would have agreed to anything to get her gone.

“Thanks,” she said.

From the scrambled sound of her feet going upstairs, he knew she’d left. Yet, the smell of her soap remained. Lavender mixed with sandalwood and a faint hint of citrus. It made him feel giddy and left his heart hammering in his chest. _What is happening to me?_

When he couldn’t stand the scent anymore, he fled to the kitchen to make himself another cup of tea. He didn’t really want it, but it was better than just sitting there inhaling insanity. Once there, he shifted about the kitchen, slamming cabinet doors and filling the kettle.

Sherlock needed a case. Badly. As it was, his brain was unmistakably beginning to feel the effects of being underused as his thoughts were wildly swinging into areas where they did not need to tread and his body was reacting in strange ways.

He was spending too much time with Molly. He often enjoyed their interactions, but they usually took place in a proper setting such as the mortuary or in her lab. Having her in his flat all the time was causing the introduction of feelings he did not normally allow himself to associate with. _Oh, what chaos boredom brings!_ He would rather be shooting up the wall again than dealing with this nonsense.

Why had John moved out and gotten married? If he were here, none of this would have occurred. Sure, Mary was a wonderful woman and all, but the couple could have remained dating perpetually. All this getting married and having babies nonsense undoubtedly had damaging effects to Sherlock’s psyche.

His phone went off again. Pulling it from his pocket, he read another text from Mycroft.

_How is the babysitting coming along? I bet it’s quite cozy. Any familial stirrings for your goldfish yet?_

Frowning, Sherlock once again lamented the fact that he was not an only child. He typed his own message in, feeling better once he pressed “send.”

_I don’t know, brother dear. Got Moriarty yet?_

As they both knew the answer to that, Sherlock smirked as he waited for the reply. While Mycroft was visibly relieved to have his younger brother not sent off on a mission expected to get him killed, the older Holmes was less than pleased that a man he had assured his superiors was dead had flashed his face all over the greater part of the U.K. The embarrassment suffered from this was still evident on his face whenever Sherlock saw him. The phone vibrated again as the kettle began to sound.

_That’s your job, isn’t it? However, it looks as though you are too busy with other issues waltzing into your life._

 “Aha!” Sherlock yelled.

As suspected, Mycroft’s pride had caused him to tip his hand. Sherlock left his tea mid-preparation, intent on searching the flat for video or listening devices. Mycroft had increased surveillance on the building and its surrounding area, but they had agreed nothing would be placed in the actual flat. Of course, Mycroft—being Mycroft—would do this anyway as he was notoriously nosy when it came to Sherlock’s doings. Thus with this in mind as well as the proof in his insinuation from the last text, Sherlock knew there were devices afoot in his flat and was intent on finding them. It wasn’t a case by any means, but it was better than dealing with incessant thoughts of Molly.

 _Anything_ was better than that.

 

**—RE—**

 

Molly returned to the lounge to find Sherlock scaling the large bookcase on the right side of the fireplace, tossing books randomly over his shoulder, and the sound of the kettle boiling loudly in the kitchen.

Evidently, something had happened. Thankfully, Abby had managed to sleep through it.

“What are you doing?” Molly asked as she went to turn the kettle off. Once it was silenced, she came back into the lounge. “Well?”

Instead of answering, Sherlock jumped down and then proceeded to ascend the other bookcase, muttering something about Mycroft as he went. His phone, which had been placed on the arm of his chair, sounded.

“Read it,” he said, tossing more books over his shoulder.

Molly grabbed the phone. “It’s from Mycroft.”

“I know. Read it.”

“It says, ‘You’ll never find it.’” She frowned. “Find what? Is this about Moriarty?”

“No.”

She exhaled in relief. “Then what?”

Instead of answering, Sherlock jumped down from the second bookcase and started towards the desk, rifling through the papers gathered there. “No,” he grumbled after a bit, “too obvious.” He turned and peered about the room with a dubious expression. “Aha!” With that, he rushed to the kitchen.

Molly leapt out of his way as he started tearing that room apart. “Sherlock, what are you searching for? Stop all this racket. You’re going to wake Abby.”

He froze, turning to look at her. “We weren’t in here. We were out there. So, it must be in the lounge. But where would he put it? It’s not in any of his usual spots. He’s gone the extra mile this time. Is it just sight or can he hear, too?”

Had Sherlock gone mad? She’d only been gone a few minutes, but the man before her had clearly gone ‘round the bend or something. Still, this was Sherlock. No matter how strange or outlandish his actions seemed, there was always a reasonable explanation.

“Sherlock, who are you talking about? ‘He’ who? Mycroft?”

“Of course, Mycroft. Who else?” he barked, walking around her back into the lounge.

He fiddled around the television, messing with the cables and muttering to himself as he went. When he didn’t find what he was looking for there, he moved on to crawling around on the floor inspecting where the floor met the wall. “I will find it, Myc,” he yelled.

 _Mike? Who’s Mike?_ Meanwhile, Sherlock was perched on all fours, staring blankly into the distance for a while as though he were waiting for something. When whatever he wanted didn’t appear, he grunted and went back to searching.

Making his way to the sofa, he muttered, “I bet he did it the last time he came over for tea. I knew he wasn’t that interested in my experiments.”

Molly stepped around him long enough to claim the baby carrier, holding it away from him. Abby must have been exhausted as she barely moved during all of this. Sherlock’s head suddenly popped up. “Did he text again?” he asked.

“No,” she said, realizing she was still holding Sherlock’s phone. She set the carrier down in John’s chair, made sure it was secure, and walked over to the consulting detective, who had moved on to patting on the walls. She wondered what kept her so firmly in love with him. He was exceptional and gorgeous to be sure, but also more than a little mad. There were times she’d found herself ridiculously attracted to the insane streak in him—more so that than his intelligence or looks—but now was not one of those. “Do you want your phone?”

“Not now,” he said, pressing his ear against the wall. “Come out, come out wherever you are!”

There was an explanation. Molly was sure of it. Whatever it was, Mycroft was at the end of it. Only his brother could get this kind of reaction from Sherlock. He’d been fine before she’d gone up to change. Looking down at the phone in her hand, she looked through the messages he’d received from before.

_That’s your job, isn’t it? However, it looks as though you are too busy with other issues waltzing into your life._

As that message as well as Sherlock’s message to Mycroft gave her no further insight, she moved on to the one Mycroft had sent prior to that.

  _How is the babysitting coming along? I bet it’s quite cozy. Any familial stirrings for your goldfish yet?_

 _Familial stirrings? Goldfish?_ It all came snapping into place in Molly’s head. Mycroft was taunting his little brother with how he’d been spending his evening. _Is that what I am to them?_ She thought. _A goldfish? What does that even mean?_

Sherlock pushed away from the wall abruptly, mumbling to himself as he went. All she was able to catch were the words “test” and “I’ll show him cozy.” Before she could open her mouth to confront him, Sherlock abruptly turned to stare at her, intensely. Then, just as abruptly, he stalked up to Molly and grabbing her by the shoulders, pulled her in close.

“Sherlock, why—”

“Molly,” he said, “forgive me.”

Then, without another word, Sherlock Holmes kissed her.


	8. Turning Tables

Just as his mouth was about to touch hers, he deviated his path and planted a prolonged kiss on the delicate skin between her cheek and lips. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he jerked Molly’s body against his and kept pressing. As far as kisses went, it wasn’t bad. Or, so Sherlock thought.

Then, of course, all hell broke loose.

First was the sound of his mobile going off. This was quickly followed by the sharp yell of John coming from the door, a gasp from Mary, and the inevitable crying of an awakened Abby. Sherlock disengaged himself from a now-stricken Molly, who besides stiffening under him, had done nothing while he’d kissed her. Even her hands had remained frozen to her sides throughout his attentions. _Not a good sign._ He’d have some explaining to do there.

 _Later. First things first_. Reclaiming his mobile, he reviewed the latest text from his brother.

_You are still a petulant child, Sherlock. You could have at least given the girl a real kiss._

_Ha_ , he thought, _got you_. He turned on heel and sprinted to the smiley face still painted on the wall. A few minutes of digging with a penknife later, and he was able to secure the pill-sized camera Mycroft had hidden in one of the bullet holes. A zing of exhilaration raced through him as he crushed the device beneath his heel. A lot of the frustration building in him with these last weeks went with it.

 “Yes,” he announced, triumphantly. “Knew it was in here!”

 “What the hell is going on?”

 _Oh, yes._ He’d forgotten John.

“How do you mean?” Sherlock asked, increasingly aware that Abby’s cries were getting louder. _Isn’t anyone going to pick her up?_ He scanned the room. Molly was where he’d left her, looking decidedly more subdued than before. _Not good, that._ But he wasn’t worried. Once he clarified a few things, she’d be fine. Molly was always fine once he explained. John was standing near the door, hands on his hips as he always did when preparing to deliver a lecture. Mary was behind him, peering back and forth between Sherlock and Molly as if a great tennis match was taking place.

Evidently, they’d all missed the relevance of his actions. He shook his head. _How do they handle being so behind on_ everything _? It must be so depressing to be so ignorant all the time. Then again,_ he considered, _they do say ignorance is bliss._

John, of course, overreacted. “How do I mean?” he repeated. “How do I—Sherlock, you and Molly were kissing. Kissing! You and Molly!”

 “I didn’t kiss him,” Molly declared.

Sherlock looked at her before turning back to John. “It was an experiment. I used the angle Molly was standing at to discern where the camera was. Mycroft’s reaction filled in the rest.” With a sigh, he picked up the screaming baby— _Since no one else seems able to do so_. Nestling Abby close to his chest in an effort to comfort her into silence, he turned to find them all still gaping at him in disbelief.

“What?”

John found his voice first. “You and Molly were kissing.”

 “I didn’t kiss him,” Molly insisted.

 “Sherlock picked up Abby all on his own. Did you see that?” Mary said. “It’s like a day of miracles. First, he and Molly finally act on their feelings, and now he’s being a proper godfather to Abby.”

“Miracles?” John said.

 “Feelings?” Sherlock said.

 “I will say this one more time,” Molly said, louder than before. “ _I_ did not kiss him. He kissed me. If I had kissed him, it would have been obvious. And the only feeling I wish to act on in this moment is the feeling of my knee thrust into _his_ bollocks.” With a fiery glare at Sherlock, Molly shoved past Mary and John and fled to her bedroom.

 _Well_ , Sherlock thought, _that was decidedly not good._ When he considered all of this later, Sherlock was sure he could have come up with a better plan to determine where the camera was. This one—while successful—had far too many unwelcome consequences. Molly’s temper being at the top of the consequence list. It was an unpredictable thing, that. He stalked over to John and Mary, handing the baby off to her mother. “Here.”

He retreated to the kitchen, intent on getting the cup of tea he’d originally sought. He needed some time to think of a way out of this. It couldn’t be that bad. After all, he’d apologized before kissing her, hadn’t he? Sure, he might have crossed a small line, but how angry could Molly truly be? Once he explained in full, she would probably find it humorous. And why was she this angry anyway? She hadn’t minded the other times he’d kissed her. In fact—not that he was an expert on the subject—but she had seemed to enjoy the attention of his chaste kisses. Why so different now?

In terms of Mary and her ridiculous idea of anyone acting on any sort of feeling, he wasn’t willing to waste an ounce of brainpower on that. He’d kissed Molly solely to get the better of Mycroft. Nothing more.

 “Sherlock, I’m going to need an explanation.”

He turned to see John standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

 “I’ve already explained. Mycroft hid a camera in my flat.”

 “How did you know this?”

 “The texts he sent, of course. Then, it was merely a case finding and destroying the thing.”

 “And you just _had_ to kiss Molly to accomplish this?”

Sherlock frowned at that. John’s tone suggested ulterior motives. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

John crossed his arms across his chest as he leaned against the kitchen counter. “Bollocks! You know she has feelings for you, and yet you do that to her. What were you thinking?”

 “It’s nothing I haven’t done before.”

John’s mouth fell open. “What the hell has been going on here for all this time? I know you said you two have become friends, but is that all there is to it? Do you—Have you—”

Sherlock frustration intensified. “Have I _what_?”

 “Developed feelings for Molly? Romantic ones? Or is this like Janine all over again?”

An uncomfortable tightening in Sherlock’s stomach was compounded by an irrational feeling of terror. “My relationship with Janine was for a case. I have explained that for the last time. I have never now nor will I ever have any romantic feelings for anyone—much less the mousy pathologist who lives in your former bedroom.”

 “Will you both keep your voices down before the pathologist in question overhears?” Mary said, coming into the kitchen. The baby in her arms had quietened and seemed content being held. “And I hardly think anyone could classify Molly as mousy, Sherlock. Especially considering the walloping she gave you after we found you in that drug den.”

 “Yet another thing I did _for a case_ ,” Sherlock emphasized, rolling his eyes as he brought his tea cup up for a long swig. “And, I _allowed_ Molly to hit me.” He shrugged. “It made her feel better.”

 “Allowed?” Mary parroted. “Allowed? Molly made you her bitch that day. In fact, I suspect if she wanted to, Molly Hooper could do a lot worse to you and you would _allow_ it.”

 “‘Made me her bitch’?” His eyebrow shot up in disdain. “What a quaint, _American_ saying. Careful, Mary Watson. I do believe your roots are showing”.

Undeterred by his desperate gibe to get her off this subject, his former flat mate’s wife advanced on Sherlock. He backed up. “In fact,” she continued as though he hadn’t said a word, “if Molly ever realizes her full power in her relationship with you, Sherlock Holmes, you are in deep trouble.”

Her meaning was not lost on him. “Don’t try to make a fairy tale out of this,” he proclaimed. “Not. My. Area.”

Mary laughed. Not just a giggle or a delicate chortle. No, this was a full-throated, throw-one’s-head-back, full-on guffaw. “Do you think I wanted to fall in love with John? That I sought him out? I wanted to live a quiet life alone, under the radar. Friends? Yes. Husband and daughter? No. Why would I willingly want to take on liabilities? Make myself that weak?” She flicked a quick glance at John before returning her attention to Sherlock. “Love doesn’t ask permission. It just happens. You’ll be in the middle before you even realize it’s started. And once it’s hooked you, there’s nothing you can do but sit back while you’re reeled in.”

“Don’t confuse yourself with me, Mary. There are many ways we are alike, but this is not one of them.”

It was her turn to shake her head in dismay. “As you like it. But whatever else Molly may be to you, she is your friend. You owe her an apology for your actions.” She sighed and looked at her husband. “It’s late. John, let’s take our daughter home. Sherlock is going to throw himself on Molly’s mercy.”

Sherlock shot Mary a glare, but it didn’t faze her.

“Don’t wait,” she added.

His phone went off again. _Damn, Mycroft._ He looked down a moment before looking back up. “It was Mycroft. If he hadn’t sent those texts …” He broke off when he realized the kitchen was empty.

Charging into the lounge, he found them packing up the baby’s gear and getting her situated in her carrier. “Was I supposed to just let him spy on Molly and I?”

Neither of them answered him. Instead, they finished their packing, Mary pecked him on the cheek, John gave him a somber nod of farewell, and the Watsons left his flat.

Silence came in the wake of their departure, leaving him with nothing but his thoughts. For the first time in Sherlock’s life, this was not a comforting thing.

 

**—RE—**

 

The knock on the door didn’t surprise Molly. The second she heard the sounds of John and Mary taking their leave, she knew he’d come. This knowledge, however, did not make him welcome.

 “Go away, Sherlock,” she called.

The handle rattled. “Why is this door locked?” He had the audacity to sound perturbed.

 “Make a deduction, and figure it out,” she retorted.

Silence followed. _Maybe he left. Please let him have gone._ Molly wrapped her hands around her up-drawn knees. She’d have to deal with him sooner or later, but was it wrong to hope that it would be later? With the mood she was currently in, morning was good. Next year would be better.

A soft click a moment later was all the warning she had until the bedroom door swung open. “Molly,” he said by way of greeting—as if he hadn’t disregarded all courtesies associated with privacy—“we apparently need to talk.”

 “I locked that door,” she said.

He shrugged. “Since when has a locked door ever kept me out?”

 _Complete git._ She closed her eyes, set on ignoring him as she rested her head back against the headboard. “Go. Away.”

Of course, he completely ignored her wishes and did exactly what he wanted. Molly felt him move towards the bed. “You left these downstairs. I thought you might want them.”

Curiosity had her looking down at the bundle he’d settled on the end of her bed. It was the soiled pyjamas and robe she’d discarded before. As far as peace offerings went, it was pitiful. Once he completed his task, Sherlock took a step back, clasped his hands behind himself, and waited.

 “Go away,” she echoed, her voice softer and barely there.

 “I am certainly in favor of not speaking of what occurred downstairs—mostly because nothing of any true import happened. However, it has been pointed out to me that it is better I explain my behavior to you—especially as my actions have been perceived by some as having a certain romantic intent, which I wish to assure you I—”

Her anger swelled to fury. Molly shot from the bed, stalking him even as he backed to the door. “I’m well aware of why you kissed me. Mycroft hid a camera in the flat. You used me to determine its location. If it was angled in a way that Mycroft would have thought we were truly kissing, his reaction would have been different than if he knew you were merely kissing my cheek. Thus, when he sent the text, you knew exactly where it was. Am I correct?”

Sherlock’s jaw fell open in surprise. If she hadn’t been so ready to kill him, she might have found the reaction humorous.

Two blinks. “Yes, quite.” He coughed. “Glad we have all of that out of the way. I didn’t want you to think the kiss we shared meant—”

She grabbed the front of his shirt and jerked him forward. “Use of the word ‘shared’ indicates I was an active participant. Clearly, you don’t know what it is like to have me kissing you. Allow me to demonstrate.” He let out a slight grunt which she muffled by standing on her toes and capturing his lips with her own.

His mouth and body stiffened under hers, but she didn’t stop. If she was going to be accused of kissing him, she was at least going to get her humiliation’s worth. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulled him closer, brushing her lips softly again and again over his until he got enough of his wits to begin to protest. The second he opened his mouth, she took advantage and deepened the kiss. This was her one chance to kiss the great Sherlock Holmes, and she was going to make it the best one he’d ever had or die trying.

Sucking his lower lip between her own, she felt his taut form relax into the kiss. He still wasn’t participating, but seemed more curious now than shocked. Her hands left his neck, one to thrust itself into the nest of curls along the back of his head, the other to frame his cheek. Angling her head as well as his own, she kissed him and kissed him and kissed him some more, determined to get more of a reaction. He remained passive. Frustration mounted. Running her nails delicately along the back of his head, she felt him shudder beneath her. It was something, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. Molly released his lips, shoved him against the wall, and dove in for another kiss, more determination flowing through her than ever before.

She might be Molly, the unassuming pathologist who never said no. But by the time she got through tonight, Sherlock Holmes was going to know he’d been kissed. _Really_ kissed. She would never have his love, never share a night of passion with him. But this, she could have this. She would have _this_. After all, there were two things she’d always been exceptionally good at.

And pathology was the other one.


	9. It's In His Kiss

Knowing Sherlock thought her breasts and mouth were too small was hard. Knowing he would never be in love with someone like her was harder still.

But kissing the living daylights out of the man only to discover he wasn't sexually aroused or even the slightest bit keen to kiss her back was the toughest blow Molly Hooper had ever had to endure.

It was like kissing a statue. With a resigned sigh, Molly dropped her hands from around him and stepped back. Turning away, she plowed back to her bed, climbed aboard, and after drawing her knees against her chest, promptly hid her face against her legs like a twelve-year-old girl facing her first rejection—which is exactly how she felt.

It took a while, but at length, he spoke. “Molly, I think—”

“Get out,” she interrupted, voice muffled by her knees.

“I would ordinarily agree with you, and perhaps, what I am about to say comes from spending too much time in the likes of John Watson's company—at least that’s what Mycroft would say. Yet, I’ll not leave this room until we’ve talked about this. I refuse to spend the next few weeks walking on egg shells around you until you get over this … whatever _this_ is … and can act like a reasonable adult again.”

Her head shot up. The first thing she noticed was his Cupid's bow mouth was swollen. She hated how much the sight made her want to kiss him again. Moreover, she hated how much the instinct to kiss him overwhelmed the abject humiliation currently flowing like adrenaline through her bloodstream. She wanted to kiss him again. Even though feeling was not reciprocated. Why would he ever want her? She wasn't worth wanting.

What was wrong with her? She knew he didn't want her. She'd known it long before she kissed him. Was she a masochist? One would have thought after the countless hours she’d spent dreaming about kissing him, having the actual kiss go so terribly wrong would have “broken the spell,” as it were, and make her finally stop caring so much for him. Instead, it made her feel like a cocaine junkie looking to score another fix.

Considering how much she loathed drugs as well as anyone mixed up with them, this was saying something.

“Molly? Do you understand what I am saying?” he asked.

Had he been talking still? She'd stopped listening the second he'd mentioned the words “reasonable adult.” _Ha!_ As if he knew what that phrase meant, much less how to act like one himself. Her eyes met his. His cheeks were red, as if he were embarrassed—which he probably was—and his eyes were clouded, but not from passion. No, the clouds came more from confusion. She’d seen that expression too many times not to recognize it. Typically, it came from his dealings with her.

“Molly?”

“There's nothing to talk about, Sherlock. You kept saying we’d kissed. I made your lie into the truth. That’s all. Don't worry. It won't happen again.”

He began to nod as she spoke, but broke off when she mentioned it wouldn't happen again. “Really?”

“Yes,” she said. “Does this surprise you?”

“I-I-It doesn't … Not r-r-really,” he stammered. Clearing his throat, he started again. “I mean, that's good. Just … yes … right. We're friends. Friends do not snog like that.”

“We weren't snogging. We were kissing.”

The red in his cheeks seemed to flame higher. “Same thing.”

“No,” she corrected. “It's not. Kissing is kissing. Snogging is more complicated. It's kissing along with heavy petting. It’s what some would call 'making out.' You and I merely kissed. I kept my hands to myself.” Her eyes flicked up to meet his. “As did you.”

“Yes,” he hastily agreed. “Right. Thank you for clarifying.”

“Get out, please.”

He turned immediately to do so, but only got as far as the door before he halted. She couldn't imagine what else he could possibly have to say. With him, one couldn't even guess. It could be something as blithe as wanting her to make him a coffee to delivering a rundown of all her dirty secrets—Information he had no doubt gained from that horrific kiss.

“Molly, you should know that I consider you integral to my life. I would not be able to function as well as I do in my cases without your assistance. You—”

“Count. Yes, I know, Sherlock. I also know this isn't your area and that you don’t like me like that. You’ll never like me like that. I know.” Somehow, saying that last bit out loud felt like the last nail in a coffin. The long pause from him only confirmed everything she'd said. _Why can't you like me like that? Why am I not worthy enough?_

As if he'd heard her thoughts, he took a deep breath and said, “Molly—”

But she couldn't bear to hear him try to soothe her. It would only make things worse. It would only give her reason to hope and prolong this masochistic torment further. The time for false hopes was over with and the sooner she realized that, the better off she'd be. She was going to stop being in love with him if it was the last thing she did.

“It's OK,” she interrupted. “You're my friend. That’s enough.”

He flipped around with the speed that seemed inhuman. “Really?”

She hated how delighted he seemed at the mere prospect of that. His smiling face reminded her of a child about to get a treat. “Really,” she agreed, forcing a smile for his sake. “But you can't kiss me anymore—not for a case or your brother or any other ridiculous reason life throws at you. Not even on the cheek. I can accept that you don't want me, but you have to stop doing things which give me hope. It isn't fair.”

He stared at her as if he were searching down to the depths of her soul. Strangely enough, instead of hiding from that or deflecting it as she usually did, she stared right back. She wanted him to see how much she felt for him. She would spend the rest of her life hiding it, smothering it, and ignoring it. But right now, she wanted him aware of it. She couldn't say it aloud, couldn't even think it, really, but she could feel it. Molly could let it consume and flood her; so much so even the mighty detective couldn't deny the truth of it, until he was flooded with it as well.

 _This is me, Sherlock Holmes. I am yours. Do what you will._ Her eyes washed over him, caressing the planes of his face lovingly in a way she'd long yearned to do. She smiled, nakedly vulnerable to the man she loved and not caring the least that he knew it. He smiled back at her and for the barest of seconds, she was able to revel in his smile the way a cat does the sunshine.

Then, with a sharp, indrawn breath, the spell was broken and he looked down at the floor. He seemed ashamed to have seen that or to have stared as long as he did. He gave a stilted nod, seemingly unable to look at her now. “I'm going to get to the bottom of this case with Moriarty, Molly. Then, you’ll be free. I promise you.”

“You don't make vows,” she said. “Your first and last one was at John's wedding, remember?”

He glanced up at her. “I'm making another one. Now. For you. I will solve this case as quickly as I can. I will free you of this.” He paused, swallowing deeply and audibly. “Of me. I swear it.”

There was a flash in his eyes as he said those last five words. It was like a window to his soul had been opened for the barest of seconds, treating her to a glimpse never before seen by anyone. In an instant, she understood him like never before. The knowledge gained came on her like a pile of bricks falling in her lap. Sherlock was aware of her love and humbled by it. He was also deathly afraid of it, of what it meant for him as well as the massive amounts of danger it put her in—so much so that he was fiercely rejecting it at every angle. Likewise, her vulnerability was awe-inspiring to him and went against everything he'd ever believed at the same time. He was both repulsed and inexplicably drawn to it as well as the inner strength she'd shown to lay herself out to him like that. She was also able to view something she couldn't believe she hadn't noticed before. It was shocking, but made complete sense at the same time. _He is_ , she thought. _How could he be anything but that?_ Suddenly, she recognized his reaction to the kiss in a way she never could before. _How did I not see this before? How did I not feel it when I kissed him? It was there the whole time._

In that flash, Molly was able to truly grasp what Sherlock had meant by telling her all those years ago that she counted. There were few people in this world he cared for and even fewer that he considered as his inner circle—those few people he respected and allowed to care for him as much as he cared for them. She was one of those rare people whose counsel he would heed above his own logic, one of the few he trusted to see him at his weakest, one of the limited friends he had in a world where friends were not something one allowed themselves to have for fear of the weaknesses they would place upon one. He'd made an exception to this … for her.

It was her turn to be humbled. “Sherlock—” she began.

“I'm going to have some tea,” he interrupted. “Would you like some?”

It was only when he spoke that she realized so much time had passed in silence.

She bit her lip, holding in what she'd been prepared to say. Too much had already been shared here … unsaid. Intimacy wasn't Sherlock's strong suit, but he had been more intimate here with her tonight than she imagined he had ever been with anyone—including John. That was enough. “No, thank you. I'm going to bed.”

He nodded. “Good night then.”

She noticed his hand shook slightly as he pulled the door closed behind him, but she said nothing, just let him go. Once he was gone, Molly laid back against her pillows, taking in all she had experienced and learned during the course of the evening. It felt like days had passed instead of hours. All that had happened, all that she had learned. She searched within herself, wondering if any of it had changed her feelings for him. Was now the time that she would let go of this hopeless love she felt for him?

But love doesn't work that way. It's not a tap one can turn on and off at their will. No, it's more like a tidal wave, ripping over a coastline, flooding every crevice, and washing everything that was before away as it were never there.

Molly Hooper loved Sherlock Holmes. It wasn't a crush or a schoolgirl infatuation. It was true and everlasting love. She would die loving him. No matter where she went in life or whoever else she was with, there would always be a core part of her heart that belonged to him. It didn't matter whether he wanted it or not. It was fated to be his, and it was.

And that was OK. It wasn't wrong or right. It just was. That shouldn't have been such a hard concept to understand, but it had been.

Moreover, as much as she wanted him to love her back, she now truly accepted that could never be. It was like a god loving a mortal. Those kinds of relationships never worked out. How could it? Two beings existing on very different planes? No, it couldn't be. The most she could hope for she already had: His esteem, his respect, and his friendship. It was all he’d ever be able to give anyone and he’d willingly given it to her in spades. She wasn't sure how important Irene Adler or Janine truly ranked in his life. But Molly did know she was important to him. She knew exactly how high she ranked, and there was a sweet confidence which came with this knowledge.

It was a weird moment when she decided to both accept her love for Sherlock and to also let him go at the same time. But she did. The alternative wasn't fair to either of them. She had to accept her emotion and stop trying to force him to return it.

With the decision came an inner peace which calmed her like a distraught child in the arms of her mother. It was almost as if with accepting those two things, she learned to accept herself. Her faults, her inadequacies and her imperfections. Sherlock could see them all, and he liked her in spite of them—and sometimes because of them. If he could like her so much, how could she do anything different?

Her breakup with Tom had left her shaken on this ground. Their relationship had developed so that, by the time she realized it wasn't working and what a fool she had been, they were nearly at the altar. This realization had left her unsure of herself. This night with Sherlock repaired that. The kiss that wasn't had helped this as well. She didn't have to wonder what it was like to truly kiss him anymore. She wouldn't daydream anymore about what he’d do if he truly knew the depth of her feelings for him. She knew the answers to all those questions now.

She didn't know what the future held for her, but armed with this knowledge and the freedom tonight had given her, she knew she wasn't going to cling to the past and what-if's anymore. She felt renewed. It was time to move forward for real this time, and she meant to do just that.

— **RE—**

 

Sherlock made it to the lounge before the strength in his legs abandoned him. He collapsed into his chair, all thoughts of tea forgotten as his mind was consumed as never before. It felt like someone had attached his brain to a nuclear power source. Thoughts ricocheted past him at the speed of light, but instead of being a jumbled, indistinguishable blur, they were distinct and manageable. Molly Hooper had done this to him, somehow … someway. _Molly Hooper? Who would’ve ever thought such a thing?_

His index finger ran over his lower lip, still swollen from her kiss. Back and forth, still able to discern the sensation of her mouth on his. The warmth, the softness, the appeal of it all. He reviewed the memory again and again until it was catalogued and ingrained. This, along with all that she had made clear to him minutes ago was overwhelming. Moreover, there was an awakening in him now which he couldn't explain. He only knew he was aware of things in a way he had never been before, almost as if he'd been given a sixth sense. He couldn't explain it and, for some reason, the lack of explanation didn't bother him at all.

“Fascinating.”


	10. A Little Experiment

After two straight weeks on a case, the last thing Sherlock wanted to see upon returning home was his brother. He said nothing as he entered the main room, trudging past the man sitting stiffly at the end of the sofa. He didn’t even flick a look as he went into the kitchen. Not only was this the easiest way for Sherlock to get the cup of tea he desperately needed, but it had the added benefit of annoying Mycroft, which was always a good thing.

Some minutes later, he came back to the lounge, settling himself in his chair and trying to ignore what was probably a bruised rib. Taking a grateful sip of his tea, he picked up a nearby paper and perused the headlines. It took a full three minutes before Mycroft became frustrated enough to break the silence.

“I don’t have all day, Sherlock. One of us has an actual job.”

Behind the paper, Sherlock rolled his eyes. He certainly wasn’t falling for such easy bait. He knew what Mycroft wanted. He simply wasn’t inclined to give it away easily. So, in lieu of a reply, he swiftly flipped the page and kept reading.

At long last, there was a put-upon sigh followed by “Well? Did you find anything?”

“Did you?” Sherlock countered, not bothering to lower his paper.

“I’m not the one who disappeared for a fortnight.”

“No,” he said, flicking the paper down to stare haughtily at his opponent, “but you are the one who lost Moriarty’s body. Have you managed to locate that or have you been too busy with your _actual job_? And while we are discussing it, how exactly does one lose a dead body? It’s not like he could have gotten up off the slab and walked out.”

“You did.”

An unwilling smile cracked the corner of the consulting detective’s mouth. “Yes, but I didn’t put a bullet in my brain. Moriarty did. He is most assuredly dead.”

“Have you considered it might have been a trick? He’s an exceedingly clever man. Perhaps, he outwitted you. We both know you’re not the smart one.”

“And yet, I didn’t lose the body, did I?” Sherlock replied, flipping the paper back up.

Another frustrated sigh sounded. “This is tedious. I’m tired of wasting valuable resources on someone with the temperament and maturity of a five-year-old. I have men watching you for a reason, my superiors granted you a pardon on the condition that you solve the case—”

“Which I was working on.”

“—And yet you walked away without the slightest bit of protection or warning.”

“They would have slowed me down.”

“You didn’t even take John with you.”

“He’s busy with Mary and the baby. I sent him a text.”

“I’m your brother. You should have sent me one!”

Sherlock shrugged, not caring if it could be seen or not. “You didn’t rate a text.”

“And your new flatmate? Did she ‘rate a text’?”

It was clearly time to stop annoying Mycroft. Sherlock put away the paper and steepling his fingers, he said, “Moriarty’s network has been effectively dismantled.”

“So you said when you initially returned to London.”

“I needed to make sure.”

“Is that _all_ you were doing?”

“Whoever has the body took it to cast doubt on Moriarty’s death. They’re using him to mask their own activities.”

Mycroft’s smirk deepened. “It pains me greatly to quote the youth of this country, but ‘Duh!’“ He shifted until he was on the edge of his seat. “Do you know who’s behind it?”

“No,” Sherlock swiftly replied, “but I have my suspicions, which is more than I had two weeks ago.”

“Since when do you care a jot about suspicions? You observe and make deductions based on those observations. Have you forgotten everything I taught you?”

It was Sherlock’s turn to smirk. “Skills like mine cannot be taught, only fine-tuned. This is why I am needed, from time to time, to do your _actual job_ for you.”

“Damn it, Sherlock. What do you know? Tell me what you bloody well uncovered!”

There was something primitively satisfying in breaking through Mycroft’s icy exterior. Even as a child, he’d been able to rein his emotions with the rigidity which could be seldom replicated. It was as much Mycroft’s innate skill as observation was Sherlock’s.

Having successfully managed his task, Sherlock decided to throw the frustrated man a bone. “Moriarty and I had a lot in common, more than anyone ever knew.”

“Yes, indeed, including a romantic connection to a certain pathologist. Really, Sherlock, when will you learn not to let sentiment rule you?”

The consulting detective let a Cheshire cat grin spread over his face, knowing this was an ace Mycroft had been wanting to play. “I’m not sure what’s more pathetic, that you actually believe I have ‘romantic’ anything for anyone or that all it took was a chaste kiss on the cheek to convince you. Has it occurred to you I might have had an ulterior motive for my actions? I needed to find the camera you hid. And,” he said as he picked up his tea cup again, “my plan worked spectacularly. Who knew you were so quixotic? Perhaps the next time Molly has one of those insipid ‘chick flicks’ nights of hers, she can invite you over. You can braid each other’s hair, eat ice cream, and talk about your cinematic crushes. I know how you favor a good, broad-shouldered chap.”

Instead of his brother’s expression falling into incredulity and mortification, Sherlock was surprised to see Mycroft sporting full fledge grin. That, experience had taught him, never boded well.

Mycroft chuckled and slid back in his seat, tapping his fingers happily along the arm of the sofa. “You weren’t even aware of the camera until I tipped you off. Has it occurred to _you_ that I might have had a reason to hide the camera and send you the texts?”

The events of that evening zipped through Sherlock’s brain like a film on fast-forward. _Damn. Double damn._ It had been a trap, one he’d idiotically fallen into. _You stupid sod!_ Keeping his expression neutral, Sherlock was determined to remain in control here. He tsked good-naturedly. “Really, Mycroft, is your life _that_ boring?”

“I knew something was off the second my men reported your pathologist was staying with you. You should have given her over to my care. Her safety would have been assured. Yet, one conversation and she has moved in to your flat—even though she’ll be nothing more than a distraction to your work. At first, of course, I assumed it had to do with your perpetual need to alleviate loneliness. After all, John is gone, and Mrs. Hudson has never been enough for you. And it’s not like you can afford another trip to a drug den right now.”

“You know a lot about loneliness, don’t you?” Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft chuckled again. “You’ve taken her on cases with you before and you’re often in her company for your experiments. She even proved useful in your little public death illusion, but this time, it’s different. I was curious to see _how_ different; so I decided to conduct a little experiment.”

“Nothing happened. You saw that for yourself.”

“Oh _something_ happened all right.”

“What?”

“You kissed her.”

“Yes, to ascertain the position of the camera.”

“You could have accomplished that a million other ways. Why go to the trouble of kissing her? You know of her little infatuation with you. Inflaming her passions in that regard could only prove troublesome now that she’s living with you—unless you wanted her passions inflamed. Perhaps she had already inflamed yours?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It was nothing more than a means to an end. Perhaps your past interludes have colored your perception on this subject.”

“Perhaps your virginity is soon to be a thing of the past.”

Sherlock’s smirk returned. “Don’t you know? It already is. It made a few of the papers. According to my former fiancée, I’m quite the randy fellow.”

Mycroft laughed, a sharp, piercing sound Sherlock had never liked. “Is that why you let her print that garbage about you? To finally rid yourself of your maidenly nickname? Perhaps you should have taken Ms. Adler up on her offer to help you with that. Or is it now your plan to allow Molly Hooper that honor? How … sweet.”

A spark of fear ricocheted up Sherlock’s spine. He ignored it in favor of yawning widely. “You’re grasping at straws, and I’ve better uses of my time. If that’s all, you can show yourself out.” He reclaimed his paper. “As you can see, I’m busy.”

“Tell me what I wish to know, and I will be glad to do so.”

“Any finite conclusions I have made you already know. Conceivably, you could use that _actual job_ of yours to do a little digging on your own. Or, better yet, find that missing body. All those resources at your fingertips and even someone like you should be able to succeed.”

Mycroft snickered. “My God! You really do like her, don’t you? I can smell your fear from here.”

“Fear of what?”

“Fear that my assertions about your new flatmate are right, brother dear.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. “Leave the observations and experimentation to the professionals, Mycroft. You’re wasting your time.”

“Why are you in such a hurry for me to leave?” There was a pause as he seemed to consider this. “Ahh … I see. She’s coming home, isn’t she? The last thing you want is for me to see the two of you together in person. You fear you might give something away?”

“There’s nothing to give away.”

“Sure about that?”

Unfortunately, before he could answer, the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs reached him. _Molly._ He’d know her shuffle anywhere. _Not now. I haven’t gotten rid of him yet._

But there was nothing to be done for it. Both men turned to watch the door. She entered moments later.

“Molly,” Sherlock said calmly, hating how much the sight of her sent a surge of pleasure coursing through his veins. He’d missed her. He could admit that to himself, if to no one else. Knowing Mycroft was watching, he forced himself to relax back in his chair when in reality he wanted nothing more to shoot to his feet. “You’re early. Your shift ends an hour from now.”

“You said you were coming home. I missed you. It’s been ages.” She held up a bag of take away. “I brought dinner.”

“He sent you a text announcing his return? How quaint,” Mycroft called out.

“Well,” Molly said, frowning in what looked like confusion, “I’m his flatmate and friend.”

“I texted John as well, Mycroft,” Sherlock said. He turned to Molly. “Don’t upset yourself. Jealousy has never looked well on him.”

“Sherlock didn’t want me to worry. That’s all. He didn’t mean to leave you out, I’m sure,” Molly added hastily.

Sherlock winced at that, but stayed silent.

“Yes,” Mycroft said, “Sherlock has long been known for his compassion and care of other’s feelings. It is one of the pillars of his character.” He gestured towards the plastic bag she was holding. “And you brought dinner for the two of you. How,” He turned to deliver a meaningful look to Sherlock before finishing his sentence, “romantic.”

Molly colored at his words and seemed all the more confused. “I-I-I’ll just go get plates.” She got halfway across the lounge before she said, “Mycroft, I have extra if you’d like to join us.”

With a smug smile, Mycroft said, “I’d be delighted.”

It was at times like this that Sherlock wished his pathologist was a little less polite. Honestly, it was her biggest flaw. This, of course, was a flaw he ritually took advantage of, but he preferred being the only one doing that. Molly returned from the kitchen carrying a twin plates filed with curried chicken, rice and vegetables, which she delivered to both men. Sherlock took his without comment, setting the plate on his lap and not bothering to issue a thank you. He hoped Mycroft took special note of that. The elder Mr. Holmes, who no doubt never ate so casually, seemed taken aback by the idea that he was expected to consume a meal while seated on a sofa. With a stiff thanks, he accepted the plate and fork from Molly, but held it formally in the air away from him, as if unsure how to proceed.

Sherlock snorted gleefully at his brother’s discomfort and tucked into his food. After days of little to no sustenance of any import, the spicy food was welcome. When he noticed Molly coming back with her own plate out of the corner of his eye, he didn’t bother looking up. No use giving Mycroft any ammunition. Molly, after a quick perusal of the room, leaned against the wall and began to eat.

“Mycroft, how have you been?” she asked, cheerfully.

“Busy,” Mycroft curtly replied, distastefully picking at his food with his fork. “Do human beings actually consume this?”

Molly blushed furiously. “Oh, sorry! Would you rather have something else? I could—”

“Move.”

Sherlock spoke without thought. It was more on instinct than anything else. Both Mycroft and Molly jumped at the severity of his tone. Turning to glare at his brother, Sherlock left no doubt to whom he was speaking when he reissued his order.

“Excuse me?” Mycroft asked, still holding his plate with the aplomb of someone who’d been asked to juggle running chainsaws.

“You’re in Molly’s seat.”

After a brief glance at the woman near the wall, Mycroft gave a small, uncomfortable laugh. “There’s an empty chair right next to you. She can sit there.”

“You’re in her spot. Move.” There was something infinitely satisfying in this, and Sherlock was determined to see it through. Hopefully, if he was rude enough, Mycroft would take this as an invitation to leave. _The quicker, the better._

Molly tried to intervene. “Sherlock, it’s fine. He can stay as he is. I don’t mind standing. I was sitting at my desk the last few hours anyway, doing paperwork.”

Sherlock ignored this, knowing she was merely being polite again. Mycroft could be here for the next twelve hours, and Molly would never complain. She’d just stand there acting like it was OK. It wasn’t OK. Mycroft was being rude to her. That would never be OK.

“You have three choices, brother: Move to the other end of the sofa, move to this seat,” Sherlock pointed at the empty seat beside himself. “Or, best of all, leave.”

Mycroft rose, handing his plate over to Molly. ““Thank you for your hospitality, but I believe it is time I was on my way,” he said.

Sherlock smiled.

“Are you sure I can’t get you something else?” Molly asked.

“No.” Mycroft pinned his brother with a meaningful stare. “I got what I came for.”

And, just like that, Sherlock’s smile fell away.

 _Damn_.


	11. The Three Sherlocks

Sherlock shot to his feet, ignoring the sharp pain this caused in his side. Wasting no time, he ushered his irksome sibling to the door and through it. As they reached the threshold, Mycroft turned to deliver what was surely some clever quip. At which point, Sherlock took great delight in slamming the door in his face. Resting against the back of the door, it occurred to him that this latest action on his part would probably just be chalked up as another bit of evidence to prove Mycroft’s theory, but as it was done already and his brother was no longer in his flat, Sherlock found he didn’t care.

He pushed away from the door with more force than he meant to and sucked in a hard breath at the echoing twinge in his ribs. Ignoring the still-rattled Molly, he went to the kitchen in search of tea. Once he got there, he decided a glass of Scotch would serve him better. Morphine would be the best yet, but there was none to be had—not without significant drama from his brother, John and Molly, that is. Honestly, he’d had enough to last him quite a while.

Taking a large gulp of his drink, he felt Molly come up behind him. He ignored her, finishing off the glass and pouring himself another. He brought the glass to his mouth for another swallow when she finally broke the silence.

“Take off your shirt.”

The Scotch seared its way down his trachea. He coughed, hacked, and wheezed, trying to rid his lungs of the offending liquid. Tears bit the back of his eyes as he tried to catch his breath and battle against the rising pain the coughing had caused. Molly came around to the front of him, holding out a napkin. He ignored this in favor of glowering at her. “What?”

“Take off your shirt.”

Sherlock was speechless. He had heard her correctly. He scurried back from her, intent on putting distance between them. What did she know? Had she somehow caught on to Mycroft’s theory? Had she overheard something on her way upstairs? Did she think he—that they would—that _he_ — Logic quickly won out, pronouncing all of this as impossible. With the impossible taken out of the equation, this left only one plausible explanation for her demand.

“How did you know?”

Her face softened with concern. “You favor your left side when you walk, and you grimaced twice. Clearly, you’re hurt. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s your ribs. Now stop being a ninny, and let me see.”

Sherlock turned away from her and took a long quaff of his drink. “A hot bath, another one of these, and some sleep is all I need.”

“Sherlock, I have a special affinity for the shirt you’re currently wearing. Don’t make me cut it off of you.”

He ignored the fact that a woman half his size had just threatened his wardrobe and looked down at the dark blue shirt he was wearing. _Hmm … strange._ Females ordinarily preferred the purple one. In fact, he’d worn the purple shirt on more than one occasion in hopes of swaying Molly to do something she would’ve normally refused—not that she’d ever refused him anything.

“Why the blue one and not the purple?”

“The blue one brings out your eyes. Makes them seem warmer, which makes you look more …” She bit her lip, as if she were trying to think of the word she wanted.

“Human?” he offered.

She looked away. “No, of course not. Just less like—”

“A sociopath?”

Her head popped up at that. She frowned. “No.”

“Then what?”

She glanced down, mumbling to herself before announcing “Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

He refused to be swayed on this. “More like what?”

She kept silent. He kept staring.

Finally, she sighed and said, “More like my Sherlock.”

He had no valid response for this. _Her Sherlock? What does that mean?_ _It_ took him a few minutes, but he finally put the question to her. “What is your Sherlock?”

She took a deep breath, as if to steady herself for the explanation. “I believe there are three Sherlock Holmeses. I have for a while now. The first is the consulting detective. All business, all work, all logic. No emotion.”

“There is only a single Sherlock Holmes, and you have just described him in one.”

Molly continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “The second is very puerile in nature. He has tantrums and is overly emotional. He’s also quite the terror when bored.”

He didn’t bother to disagree this time. After all, she had a point. “And the third?”

She sighed again, unable to meet his gaze as she answered. “The third Sherlock is warm and sweet and funny and generous and friendly. Of the three, he’s the rarest to come out. That’s …”

“That’s … ?” he prodded.

“That’s my Sherlock.”

She stared at him full-on as she said this. This time, it was he who looked away, embarrassed. It made no sense for him to be. She was the one waxing poetic and listing qualities he would never possess. Dear God, surely her love for him hadn’t caused her to undergo some sort of mental instability where she lied to herself this deeply? Undoubtedly, she’d fantasized about them being together in a romantic way, but to take her fantasies to this level? What was wrong with her?

He once again met her gaze. He’d never directly lied to Molly Hooper, and he didn’t much like the idea that she was lying to herself—at least not when it came to him. “Molly, I am none of those things. You of all people should know this. I have ripped your feelings asunder on more than one occasion. Do you remember that first Christmas you came to the flat for that infernal party John was so set on throwing? Do you remember what I said to you then?”

“Yes. I’ll never forget.”

“There? See?” He should have felt satisfied to have made his point. Instead, he only felt more humiliated to be reminded of how badly he’d messed up that situation. “I’m an unfeeling cad. Always have been. Always will be.” He moved to turn away from her, intent on pouring himself another drink.

“You apologized.”

That stopped him. She didn’t wait for him to reply. “I’ll never forget that night, not because of what you said to me about the present I brought, but because you apologized for humiliating me. Not because John or Mrs. Hudson or Greg Lestrade told you to, but because you wanted to, because you felt badly about your actions. Then, you leaned down, wished me Merry Christmas, and kissed me on the cheek.” She gave a small smile. “Hardly the behavior of an unfeeling cad, wouldn’t you say?”

Even though he was standing there fully clothed, Sherlock felt strangely naked. He cleared his throat. “I did that merely to assure my access to the morgue was not compromised.”

“And after you came back from taking down Moriarty’s operation? You invited me out on cases with you.”

“Only because John was being a git about forgiving me at the time. I certainly didn’t relish going alone.”

“At the end of the day, you wished me well with Tom, told me I deserved happiness with someone who wasn’t a sociopath—someone who was decidedly not _you_ —and kissed my cheek— _again_. Was that all because of John, too?”

“Molly—”

“And, finally, when I brought Tom ‘round to meet you, you didn’t say a word about how much he looked like you. A perfect opportunity to point out something like that, and you don’t take it. There’s a first.”

The surprise left him light-headed. “You knew?”

“Not at the time, of course, but later …” She closed her eyes and waved the words away. “ _Much later_. But you, being you, you had to have noticed, and yet you didn’t say a word—all to spare my feelings. What am I to make of that?”

Sherlock’s heart raced in his chest. She wasn’t … _She didn’t think? Did she?_ Because it seemed as if she were trying to say he—

She smiled at him, a wide, heartfelt smile which made her eyes sparkle. “You’re a wonderful friend, Sherlock. I am lucky to have you in my life. And it’s when you’re being what I call ‘my Sherlock’—as rare as it is—that I’m reminded of why I tolerate the other two versions of you and why I’m proud to call you my friend. The blue in your shirt has a tendency to warm up your eyes, causing them to look like they look when my Sherlock is about. So you can see why I’m intent on keeping this shirt intact.” Crossing to him, she reached for the garment.

He darted away, but having nowhere to go, grunted as his back hit the counter. It took him a minute or so to remember that he was more than foot taller than she was and strong enough to fend her off. Unfortunately, by this time, she’d managed to undo three of his buttons. Grabbing her wrists, he held her back from him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, appalled by her forthrightness in invading his personal space.

“I would’ve thought that was obvious.”

Was it? He wasn’t sure. He hoped she meant to check his ribs, but after that speech she’d just given, he couldn’t be sure. At a time like this, it would’ve been helpful to have the counsel of John. “I told you I’m fine.”

“I’ll determine that for myself.”

He glared at her. “You’re a pathologist, not a general practitioner.”

She glared right back. “Your general practitioner is at home with his wife and daughter. It’s either me or a trip to A&E. Your choice.”

“My choice is to finish my drink, have a bath, and sleep until tomorrow. Now, back off, woman.”

“Let go of me, and I will.”

He frowned, unable to believe he’d been holding her wrists this whole time. He released her and stepped to the side, putting some much needed distance between them again. Instead of coming after him again, however, Molly grabbed her phone from her back pocket and started dialing.

 _Does she really think that will work?_ “Who are you ringing?” he asked, sardonically. “John?”

“Mycroft.”

He lunged, trying to snatch the mobile from her. “You wouldn’t.”

She rescued it from his fingers in just the nick of time. “Wouldn’t I?”

“I’m stronger than you,” he growled, stepping towards her and using his superior height to daunt her. It had always worked in the past. Hell, it was how he’d gotten her to agree to help him with his fall from Bart’s roof, hadn’t it? _She can never resist that._

Crossing her arms over her chest, she stared him down.

_OK. Apparently, Molly has developed an immunity._

“Take off your shirt,” she said. “If your ribs are as bad as I suspect, I’ll need to tape them.”

“Molly, I assure you—” he began, only to find her dialing on her mobile again.

“Fine,” he ground out, slipping the buttons from his shirt with a practiced ease. He jerked the shirt from his shoulders and ignoring the twinge of pain his action caused, tossed it across one of the kitchen chairs. “Happy?”

She pocketed the phone and approached him with care. He watched her, scrutinizing her expression for any meaning he could glean. But besides narrowing her eyes, Molly didn’t really react as she examined his chest. He didn’t know what to think about that.

Then she touched him, and he nearly flew through the roof. It was a light touch, nothing more than the barest sweep of her fingers across his ribs. Why he was reacting like a skittish colt, he had no idea.

“Does that hurt?” she asked.

“Uh … yes,” he said, unsure of how else to explain his reaction.

“Jesus, Sherlock. What happened to you?”

“I fell.”

“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t do that unless I was helping you.”

He grinned. He couldn’t help it. “This time, it wasn’t planned.”

“It looks bad.”

He looked down, surprised to see the slight bruising from this morning was now a great swath of black and purple covering half his side. “It’s bluster,” he said.

“What?”

He sighed in impatience. “It looks worse than it is. Now, if you’re through—”

“Hold still,” she said, gently probing the outer edges of the bruise. She worked her way down his side, her fingers edging over his ribs.

Sherlock hated the strange tingling sensation that followed in the wake of her touch—mostly because he didn’t know what was causing him to react this way. It was like a light tickle, but with more warmth and sensation. His body felt overly warm and tightened like a bow string. John had patched him up plenty of times, and it had never felt like this. The closest he’d ever come had been with The Woman and even that hadn’t felt like … _this_. He tried to remember the last time he’d slept. Clearly, exhaustion was getting the better of him.

Molly’s hand moved upward until it covered the large scar taking center stage on his chest. He jumped back, groaning as he hit the counter again.

“Sorry,” she said, holding her hands up and away from him as if to show she meant no harm. “The bullet wound. It’s so large. I didn’t expect it to be that big.”

“Yes,” he hissed, holding his arms up against himself as if to shield himself from her gaze. But her eyes seemed to see nothing else.

“It should have killed you.”

“It nearly did.”

She nodded. Something flashed across her face, too fast for him to catch. He wondered what she’d been thinking. Moreover, he wondered what she’d think if he told her one of the reasons he hadn’t died was because of her—or rather, the her that existed in his mind palace. No doubt, she’d make more out of it than there really needed to be. After all, Anderson had been there, too. But as quickly as the flash of emotion had come from Molly, she returned to all business. “At least the surgical scars have healed nicely.”

As he had nothing to say in response to that which wasn’t inane rubbish, he remained silent.

After her inspection was completed, she said, “Your ribs are deeply bruised. I’m also fairly sure one of them is cracked. Possibly a hairline fracture, but I’d need an x-ray to be sure.”

“No.”

“I’ll tape them.” She turned on heel without waiting for his response.

“Molly, I’m fine,” he called.

Her voice wafted back from the lounge. “You’ll sleep better with the wrap.”

“I need a bath. I can’t do that with tape on my ribs.”

“Fine,” she said. “Have your bath. I still have to find my tape anyway. What did you do with it when you finished your experiment the last time?”

“No idea.”

“Go clean yourself up. I’ll find it. It has to be around here somewhere.”

Sherlock scuttled away, locking himself in the lavatory before she changed her mind. A few minutes later, she knocked on the door to tell him she’d located the tape and was ready whenever he was done. He kept silent, focusing instead on sinking his battered body into the tub of hot water. Once he was settled, he grinned, pleased with himself.

After all, he was aware of two things Molly was not. One, he had no intention of allowing her to tape his ribs. That would require additional touching, and he was in no mood to tolerate that or the resultant responses it seemed to engender in him. And two, he had no qualms about escaping her by using the other door in the lavatory which led straight into his bedroom.

The fact that he could hear Mycroft’s mocking laughter echoing in the back of his mind was irrelevant.


	12. Sherlocked

As Sherlock had bolted both his bedroom door as well as the door which fed into his room from the lavatory, Molly was left with two options. The most obvious of which was to leave him alone. After all, he'd been in there for nearly an hour. He didn't appear willing to come out. Had she not been witness to the bruising and swelling which had commandeered most of Sherlock's chest, she might have kept to Option One. But Molly had seen it. Worry ate her conscience. If she didn't do something, he'd be suffering all night.

_So, Option Two it is._

She softly knocked. "Sherlock? Are you dressed? I need to take care of your ribs."

"Go away."

She frowned at the door. "But what about the tape?"

"Don't need it."

He _did_ need it. He was just being stubborn. _Damn male pride_. "How about an ice pack?"

"Nope."

She bit her lip, wondering what John might do in a situation like this. An idea popped in her head and unable to think of anything else to do, she pressed her face against the door in order to get the right amount of volume and pitch. "Stop being a drama queen and open the bloody door, Sherlock Holmes or, so help me, I'll break it down!"

Molly tried to inject the right amount of John-like frustration into her tone as she banged on the door with everything she was worth, hoping he’d at least be annoyed enough to pop his head out to retort.

"Good luck with that," he muffled voice taunted her from behind the door.

Rubbing the resulting sting from her hand, Molly hissed in frustration. It was at times like these that she wished she could follow through on her threat, anything to see the hard-headed man's jaw drop. That'd show him. But it was just not to be.

Molly stepped back, sizing up the door and more importantly, the handle. The consulting detective was not the only one with skills and talents, but none of Molly's included the ability to pick a lock—especially the type with a key. She considered going down to Mrs. Hudson to see if she might have the key, but quickly thought better of it. The last time she'd visited the woman in the evening, she had to sit through a three-hour chat session where the landlady recalled some rather risqué stories of her younger days as an exotic dancer. Molly knew she could happily live the rest of her life without ever having to endure those kinds of mental pictures again.

Pocketing the tape, she sulked into the kitchen, out of ideas and desperate to collect herself. She went over to the freezer, bypassing the homemade cold pack she'd put in there to give to Sherlock and going right for her stash. In times of stress, people often turned to cigarettes, coffee, alcohol or even chocolate. For Molly Hooper, it was raspberry sorbet.

She pulled one of the small, individualized containers out, popped off the top, and got to business. Two spoonfuls in, she sank against the refrigerator with a moan of pure bliss, her head falling against the closed, stainless steel door. She held the cold, velvety confection in her mouth, enjoying the feel of it slowly melting into the back of her throat; the tangy, sweet flavors bursting on her tongue. Normally, only the heights of triumph or the lows of despair had her seeking salvation in the bottom of carton. Since living with Sherlock, however, she’d indulged often. If she kept this up, she'd be the size of a house. But tonight, she couldn't find the strength to care.

It took another three, decadent mouthfuls before she was calm and able to think. She moved into the lounge, sending a glare at Sherlock's closed door for good measure. Taking her place on the sofa, she folded her feet beneath her and pondered a solution to her current dilemma. None were immediately forthcoming. She looked down at the container in her hands, dismayed to discover it half-empty. Her love of sorbet had been shared with her father, a man who'd spent his days laboring with sweat on his brow and considered the icy treat the perfect way to cool off. They'd spent many a night eating it as they watched telly. While grief might have had others shying away from something so closely tied to the one they loved and lost, for Molly, it had always been a way of bringing her closer to father. It was that kind of solace and support she sought right now.

 _How to get into that room? How can I ever hope to outwit Sherlock Holmes?_ Just as she was about to call the entire idea impossible, her father's voice mentally chided her.

_He might be smarter, but no one is more determined than my Molly._

She smiled inwardly, comforted the tiniest bit. God, she missed her dad. No one, no matter how lucky she got or who she met, would ever love her so unconditionally or believe in her so fully. She missed the safety net having her father had given her.

 _It's just you now, Hooper_ , she thought. _Now put that brain of yours to good use and figure out a way to outsmart the cleverest man in the world._ After enjoying another bite, her gaze fell on a stack of DVDs in front of the television. She'd taken advantage of Sherlock absence during the week to indulge in a chick flick marathon. He always complained loudly about her "obsessive need to view female crying films" in his presence that she tried to be a good flatmate and refrain as much as possible. Seeing the stack gave her a plan, and the brilliance of it left her giddy with excitement. She knew exactly how she was going to get Sherlock out of his room. Thanks to her father, sorbet, and Richard Chamberlain, she now had an Option Three.

A bit later, she sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the television, the mostly eaten container of sorbet in her lap and a remote in her hand. She started the movie and turned up the sound to a volume Sherlock would be sure to hear—especially if he happened to be asleep.

The second the guitars started strumming the familiar introductory soundtrack to the movie, she heard what sounded like a thump coming from his room. Her eyes shot to his closed door before returning to the television.

_Any minute now …_

"Molly!"

She grinned, popping in the last spoonful of her dessert, and waited quietly, wanting to savor everything.

"I know what you're doing!"

Silence.

"It won't work, Molly."

Setting aside the now-empty sorbet carton, she bumped the volume up a little more as the first of the dialogue began. It took all of three more minutes before his door flew open, banging loudly against the wall. Molly kept her face directed at the screen, as if he'd done nothing. After all, the fish might be nibbling at the bait, but he hadn't swallowed the hook yet.

She felt the air about her stir as he came to an abrupt stop in front of her, pointing accusingly at the telly. "What is that?"

She paused the movie to spare him a look. Sherlock was garbed in grey striped, silk pyjama bottoms and a ratty, grey, cotton t-shirt. On top of this oxymoron of a wardrobe selection was a scarlet-colored dressing grown billowing about him quite theatrically, which she was sure one of the reasons he preferred to wear them.

"Pardon?" she asked.

He crossed his arms over his chest, face flushed with palpable frustration. As much as she hated how much this only accentuated his gorgeous looks, she enjoyed being the one putting him in a tizzy. This unfiltered, emotionally turbulent Sherlock might be someone who drove John crazy, but he was one she actually relished, especially in this instance.

_All the better for Option Three._

Sherlock repeated himself, grinding each word to bits before they exited his mouth. "What. Is. That?"

She smiled to be contrary. " _The Thorn Birds_. Just started. Want to join me?"

"No."

"OK." She hit "play" again. One smattering of dialogue was all that got out before he stomped over to slap the television off.

She looked up at him again, trying to look innocently confused. "Problem?"

"I'm trying to sleep."

"You'd sleep better if you allowed me to tape your ribs."

"I'd sleep better if you would cease watching mediocre cinema. You know how it pains me."

"You'd be in far less pain if you had taped ribs."

"This film is nearly seven hours long."

"Yes."

"You have to work in the morning. You won't have time to watch it all."

"I'm off for the weekend. I can stay up late."

"No, this is your weekend to work. You can't lie to me, Molly. I memorized your schedule for the month."

It was her turn to be surprised. He'd memorized her schedule? Just as quickly, the logic of it came to her. _All the more convenient for his cases if he knows when I'm working._ Well, it wasn't going to be convenient for him this time. "I switched last weekend with Dr. Miller. Wedding anniversary." She cocked her head, tapping her index finger against her chin. "I do believe I'll make a weekend of this. I'll hit all the good ones. _The Thorn Birds, Remains of the Day_ ," She deliberately paused before releasing the last title. " _The English Patient_."

"You're bluffing," he said, eyes narrowing as he analyzed her. "You've watched all of them already while I was gone.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Really, Molly? Every night? You must have truly missed me."

"I'm not bluffing," she countered.

"Yes, you are. And from the looks of the empty container of sorbet you're fisting, I’d say you know I know your bluffing. Frustrated much?"

 _He's trying to get to me._ Molly, widened her smile. "Care to stay and find out?"

The delicate snarl of his lips said he'd rather be hanged. Molly bit back a laugh. _Excellent._

"This little ploy of yours isn't going to work, you know," he warned.

"It got you out from behind a locked door, didn't it?"

His eyes widened in surprise. She grinned, never in her life feeling more empowered than she did right now. She watched Sherlock, waiting on his next move. Strangely enough, it felt like she could hear the whirls of his brain as it spun into high gear. A shiver of fear flew through her. She could never hope to outwit him—not Sherlock at full speed. He scanned her and the surrounding room, seemingly looking for ammunition.

Molly knew her only hope of advantage was his exhaustion. She had to keep him knocked off center. So, before he could say anything, she said, "You know, I think you're right."

His eyes zipped to her as his expression fell blank. "What?"

"I shouldn't watch these now."

One eyebrow cocked suspiciously. "Really?"

"Yes, I should run upstairs and get _The Notebook_. No," she inserted as he was about to argue. " _Titanic_!"

He seemed terrified now. "Molly, if you value my sanity and historical accuracy—"

"Who cares about all that when one has Leonardo DiCaprio?"

His resulting glare made clear his opinion on that. He had the countenance of a three-year-old on the verge of a full tantrum. No doubt, this maneuver had worked on John a million times. For Molly, it was an invigorating turn of events. For the first time since she'd known this consulting detective, she was calm and in control while he was the one who was losing his mind. Not the way she'd always hoped he would, of course, but that fact didn't detract from her happiness for even an instant.

If he was intent on throwing a fit, that meant he was close to caving. All that was needed was one more, small push. Molly gave a mocking, little laugh and said, " _Sex and the City_? I have all six seasons. Or, better yet, _Glee_!"

Sherlock paled and backed away as if she'd announced she had a bomb. He looked at her before turning to look at the door which led to his bedroom, seeming to weigh the pros and cons of everything. She watched, fascinated, as he quickly, but methodically reined in his pique. It was like he'd flipped some kind of internal switch.

Straightening to his full height, he coolly said, "I'll let you touch me, but only if you agree to restrict all remaining female crying and/or singing films and like activity to your room on your laptop with earphones for the length of your stay. Do we have a deal?"

 _I'll let you touch me?_ Molly frowned at him, confused he would phrase it that way. _What does he mean by that?_ But there was no time to dwell. She'd won the battle—even though she could tell by the firm set of Sherlock's jaw that the war was hardly over. No, the world’s only consulting detective was not going to let this stand unchallenged for long. He was exhausted, had underestimated her, and just wanted to retreat for a bit before he took her down.

"Deal," Molly agreed, getting to her feet and grabbing the tape. "This won't take a mo’. Remove your shirt and robe."

He didn't move at first. It looked like he was apprehensive at having to do so in front of her, but that made no sense considering he’d been bare-chested in the kitchen not an hour ago. She stared at him and waited. He rolled his eyes, tossed off the robe, and jerked the shirt from over his head, hissing at the pain this action caused. She refrained from comment and wasted no time getting to work.

Sherlock lurched when her hands first made contact with him. A wave of goosebumps rose and spread in the wake of her fingers grazing over his skin. "Hold still," she murmured, glancing up at him and her hands fell away. She rubbed them together a bit to generate some heat so they wouldn't be so cold for him. "I know you're hurting. I’ll be as gentle as I can."

Something flashed across his face as she reached up to touch him again, but as he quickly concealed the emotion behind the mask of icy hauteur usually reserved for Mycroft or some idiotic soul who dared challenge one of his deductions, she couldn't be sure. It had looked like fear, but that made no sense. _Why would Sherlock ever be afraid of me?_

His chest felt warm beneath her fingertips, but she was happy to note she wasn't the least bit flustered by it. It seemed that in, acknowledging and accepting the fullness of her feelings for him, something inside of her had shifted. Or maybe it was just that she'd been living with him day in and out for months and the enigmatic quality about him that had always left her disoriented had dimmed. She still found him mesmerizing, of course, but was able to better control herself now. Sherlock, however, was not unaffected. Beneath her hands, she felt him shudder. _Is he cold?_ It was slightly stuffy in the flat, but as this was a man who often wore a coat in the dead of summer, she wasn't sure if he was just normally cold-natured. She peeked up, surprised to find him staring down at her keenly, as though inspecting and classifying her every move, her every breath. His chest tensed as her hand brushed against him. Everything about him seemed fixed and on alert. And unless she had missed her guess, he was holding his breath.So, he wasn't a fan of someone touching him so intimately. The fear was becoming more evident in his eyes, even though he seemed to be fighting to keep it hidden. Had she not known him as long and as well as did, she would have probably missed it or dismissed it as something else. Intent on putting him at ease, she focused on her task, trying to make quick work of it. Within a few minutes, she was pulling the edges of the tape tight against his side. Then, with a meticulous precision born out a desire to not have to repeat this process because it hadn't been done right in the first place, she smoothed down the middle and stepped back.

So, he wasn't a fan of someone touching him so intimately. The fear was becoming more evident in his eyes, even though he seemed to be fighting to keep it hidden. Had she not known him as long and as well as did, she would have probably missed it or dismissed it as something else. Intent on putting him at ease, she focused on her task, trying to make quick work of it. Within a few minutes, she was pulling the edges of the tape tight against his side. Then, with a meticulous precision born out a desire to not have to repeat this process because it hadn't been done right in the first place, she smoothed down the middle and stepped back.

"There," she said. "That should feel better."

Sherlock backed away, taking an experimental breath as he held his side. "Yes. You can go now."

His tone was curt and dismissive. Before she'd lived with him, it might have even hurt her feelings, but she knew it was only bluster from a man out of his comfort zone.

"We're in the lounge," she softly said. "Where would you like me to go?"

He blinked, seemingly bewildered at having to be reminded. "Yes. Right. I'm going to bed." He reached down to awkwardly retrieve his shirt and the dressing gown. "That is, if you are through tormenting me for the evening."

Guilt rushed in. "Would you like me to bring you some paracetamol and water? It’ll help with the pain."

He glared. "Don't come into my room unless you have morphine."

His statement was a verbal slap. That was when she knew for sure exactly how uncomfortable he was. The last thing he’d expect her to do was willingly bring him drugs. His meaning was evident. _Stay away from me, Molly Hooper._ He didn't wait for a response before turning on heel and storming back toward his bedroom.

Molly opened her mouth to wish him goodnight. However, as she caught a good look at his back, she forgot all about that as she squawked, "What on earth happened to your back?"

The door slamming shut behind him was the only reply she got. Molly was left in shock. There were scars, quite a few of them from the looks of things, crisscrossing his back. From the brief glimpse she'd gotten, it looked as though he'd been beaten by some sort of object. Who had hurt him? _Why?_ Had the marks happened during the last two weeks?

"No," she muttered to herself, remembering there was no redness about them. They were older than that. She'd bet her degree on that. If she had to guess, she would have thought the scars must have come during the all those years he'd been gone dismantling Moriarty's web of power and influence.

Without thought, she stepped towards his bedroom. The closed door brought her to a stop. She put a hand against the smoothness of the wood. Molly wanted to comfort him, to make sure he was all right, and to understand what kind of hell he must have gone through. For them. All to keep them safe. Would anyone ever understand the dangers to which this man had placed himself to keep everyone safe?

Her shoulders drooped as her hand fell away from the door. It was impossible. All of it. As far as she knew, he'd never spoken to anyone about that time. Not her, not Greg, not Mrs. Hudson. Not even John. _Impossible._ Her hands fisted at her sides. All the determination in the world couldn't help her with this one. As much as she'd outmaneuvered Sherlock Holmes before, she knew she had no hope of succeeding when it came to this.

No, whatever secrets the man had about his back and the two years he was away from London were going to remain locked away forever.


	13. Unexpected

Waking up to a disheveled looking stranger standing over her was not the oddest thing to ever happen to Molly Hooper. Of course, this in no way affected her reaction. She screamed bloody murder.

Molly shot up from the sofa, still yelling, and threw the first thing she could grab at the man’s head. It happened to be the large, hardback book she'd been reading last night before unceremoniously falling asleep on the sofa. Unfortunately, the book missed its target completely.

She twisted about, frantically searching for a new weapon to use.

_Wasn’t there a harpoon in here at one time? Where is it now, when it’s truly needed?_

Spying a skinny, black umbrella propped against the desk, she swung it back against her shoulder and prepared to strike. If the man was here to kill her, she wasn't going to make it easy.

The man threw up his hands as if to block the coming blow. “Please, Miss. I ain’t ’ere to ’arm ya none.”

Molly’s heart was beating so loudly in her ears she could barely hear him. _Where’s Sherlock? Has this man been sent from Moriarty? Where’s Sherlock? Am I in danger? Where’s Sherlock? Has he been hurt? Where’s Sherlock?_

“Can ya stop shriekin’ like that, Miss? My ’ead can't take that kind of noise this early in the mornin’, and I’m sure Mr. ’Olmes done ‘eard ya callin’ ’im. Pretty sure all of London's ’eard ya by now.”

Molly went mute, having not realized the screeching she'd heard was coming from her or that she'd been shouting Sherlock's name. Keeping a firm hand on her new weapon, she took a few steps back from the young man for good measure. “Where’s Sherlock?”

“In ’is room. Be out in a bit.”

“And who are you?”

“I’m Wiggins, Miss. Don’t you remember me?” The rail-thin youth doffed his dirty, wet cap and smiled, presenting yellowed, crooked teeth and a mass of greasy, unkempt hair. His egg-shaped eyes were blood-shot, and his face and figure were gaunt and sallow, as though he hadn’t eaten or slept in weeks. The fact that he’d been in the rain recently perfumed the air with the unpleasant odors of wet dog and boiled cabbage.

“No, I don’t remember you,” Molly replied, setting down the umbrella. One good look into the fella’s eyes told her he wasn't the type to harm her. Molly wondered if this feeling she had was because he reminded her of Sherlock. He was scrutinizing the place in a manner she found similar to the way the consulting detective would have done it. “Sorry, did we met recently?”

His smile faltered a bit. “I'm Mr. ’Olmes' protégé. We met when you was given ’im the what-for for being ’igh.” His expression was tinged with the slightest hint of awe. “You got a nice right ’ook, ya ’ave.”

Molly blushed, unable to come up with a suitable reply. She vaguely remembered the man now. At the time, she'd been so focused on Sherlock and trying to rein in her anger that she'd barely noticed John and Mary were also in the room, much less anyone else.

Suddenly, the front door to the flat flew open and John Watson in a rain-drenched kagoul and wellies hurried inside carrying an equally wet brown paper bag. “Sorry, Molly. Had to park the car and got sidelined by Mrs. Hudson.” He gestured toward Wiggins. “Did this one spook you? I didn’t realize you were still here or I never would have let him come up without me. Wait.” The doctor stopped abruptly, a flurry of droplets sliding off him and soaking the carpet. He seemed confused. “Isn’t it your weekend to work?”

Had everyone memorized her schedule? “No. I switched off with someone and worked last weekend.”

John nodded and gave her a cheery smile before glaring at Wiggins. “Go over there.” He pointed towards the empty fireplace. “Can’t you tell you’re frightening her?”

“Actually,” Wiggins replied, “she’s more bothered by the fact that ya knew ’er work schedule than she is by me.”

Molly, who’d been trying to fold up the coverlet she'd been sleeping under and didn't remember seeing before, lurched about. “How did you—” She stopped herself, recalling the deductions Wiggins had made about John that day in the lab. Adding this to how he'd been seeming to examine the details of the room made everything click into place _. Ahh._ Little wonder he’d become Sherlock’s protégé. “Never mind.”

Wiggins gave her a jaunty wink. Molly smiled, unable to help herself. He was like a lost kitten in need of a good home and a steady hand. She had the overwhelming urge to pat him on the head and offer him a bowl of kibble.

“Sherlock! Get out here,” John called. “You dragged me out of a warm bed at the crack of dawn in what looks to be a monsoon to run bizarre errands for you. The least you could do is be ready to go when I get here!”

Molly looked to the windows, surprised to see how hard and loud the rain was pelting against the panes of glass. _Ahh_ , she thought. The rain had always had this effect on her. The pale light of a stormy morning cast the ordinarily cozy room in a gray pallor.

A glance at the clock told her it was half eight. Too early to be up on a Saturday off to her mind. Molly took her usual seat on the sofa, wrapping the blanket about her to ward against the coolness in the air along with any residual fear being awakened so abruptly had left behind. She considered offering to make coffee for everyone, but didn’t because it was obvious they were all about to leave on some kind of case.

She'd just folded her feet up under her bum when Sherlock's bedroom door opened and the man himself exited, barking orders at someone from his mobile. “Delivery. Yes, Yes. I understand. I don’t care about the cost. Just take care of it.” He paused, the frown on his face melting into a sinister smirk for the barest of moments. “That’s right. Twenty minutes. 221B Baker Street. Mycroft Holmes. You have the card number.” There was another pause. “Oh no. Thank you.”

“If I ask what that was about, does that make me party to the various laws you just broke?” John asked.

Sherlock's expression was like a cat who’d devoured all the cream. “You'll see soon enough. Besides, it’s not a crime. Mycroft owed me, and he has paid … most handsomely.” His eyes skimmed over John. “I see you brought the gun as I asked.”

John sighed as though heavily put upon. “Yes. Pistols don’t grow on trees, you know, and you’ve already cost me two. So, hands off this time.”

Molly watched the two men. _This time? What happened last time? Or is he talking about that Magnussen fellow? He must be. Why do they need a gun? Are they going after Moriarty?_

“And why did I need to wear this?” John added huffily, opening his jacket to show his clothes underneath.

That's when Molly noticed the ex-soldier was wearing a navy blue suit along with a light blue tie. She also noted that Sherlock was likewise attired, including wearing a tie—something she hadn’t seen him don since John's wedding. The fact that they were so matchy-matchy made them seem like a couple. But Molly knew better than to point this out.

Sherlock shrugged off John’s question. “Did you pick up everything else?”

“Yes, including the sugar and milk.” John raised the wet bag in his hands. “Why do we need those exactly?”

“We’re out,” he answered, with a careless wave towards the kitchen. “Go put them away, will you?”

John expelled a heavy, disgusted breath through his nose, making his displeasure at this turn of events known. Molly remained quiet because she was sure laughing was inappropriate right now and because she and Sherlock had indeed been out of milk and sugar. She only wished her flatmate had remembered to request bread as well. She had a hankering for toast this morning.

As John went into the kitchen, Sherlock turned to Wiggins. “Did you get what I require?”

“Yeah. Put it in Watson's car.”

“Perfect,” Sherlock said. “You can go now.”

Wiggins crumpled his cap in his hands. “Actually, I was ’oping I might be able to … tag along wi’ you blokes. If ya don’t mind, that is. I’d like to see ’ow it’s gonna play out for myself.”

Sherlock frowned at first, but then nodded. “Fine. We’ll need a witness anyway.”

 _Witness? Witness to what?_ Molly felt as if she were watching an episode of _Broadchurch_ or something. Not that she could even do that these days with Sherlock as a flatmate. He always guessed the killer ten minutes in. It was vastly annoying, that. Sexy, too, but since she was determined to just be friends with Sherlock, she squelched traitorous thoughts like those.

“Is someone going to fill me in on what the bloody hell is going on? You know, Sherlock, it’s not as if I get a lot of sleep these days between the baby and work. The least you could do is not jerk me about like a dick,” John said angrily as he returned from the kitchen. Then, catching sight of Molly as if he’d just remembered she was there, he blushed slightly. “Apologies for the language, Molly.”

Molly waved him off, her mind too filled with questions to care what John had said. “It’s fine.”

“Well?” John prodded, eyebrows raised at Sherlock. “What’s the case?”

“Serial killer. Five victims thus far. Lestrade sent me pictures from the crime scene for the latest two.”

“Serial killer?” The words flew from Molly and John's mouth at the same time, but Sherlock only responded to John.

He shoved his phone in his partner’s direction. “Tell me what you see.”

John peered down at the screen. “Is that…?”

“Yes. Two men—”

“Crucified? On the same cross?” John finished, looking up in astonishment.

“That’s not how they died. Look closer. See the ligature marks on their necks? They were strangled. Their positioning on the cross came later. Killer’s struck three times now. Once twelve weeks ago, one two months ago, one last month, and now again last week. He was more careful before. One victim, one cross each time. Meticulous placement down the nails he used to affix them. Little evidence to tie him to it.”

“But there are two victims this time," John added, staring at Sherlock. “Two is harder to do at once. Are you sure he didn’t have help?”

Sherlock retook the phone, staring down at it. “No. He works alone. He didn’t mean to kill these two. They set him off, somehow. This was a heat of the moment decision. He didn’t have time to get another cross. Plus, the placement isn’t as neat. They’re tied together with wire; no nails. He was in a hurry.”

“What does the toxicology panel say?”

Both men looked up at her.

Molly repeated her question, rising from the sofa to move towards them. John spoke first. “Why?”

“Two men. Fully grown. If it’s a spur-of-the-moment thing, the killer’s got to find a way to manage both of them. One’s not going to wait patiently while he sits there and strangles the other. He might not have help in the form of another person, but—” She reached out to take the phone from Sherlock so she could see for herself, but the second her fingers brushed against his, he cut her off.

“Yes, yes, Molly. He drugged them first. Obviously.” He snatched the phone from her and stepped back. “Do sit down, and stay out of this.”

Molly, feeling as if she’d been punched in the stomach, fell silent. Sherlock had cut her to the quick many times, but never like this. Was this about the previous evening? Still, she hadn’t expected him to be so cruel.

“Sherlock,” John hissed in warning. "What’s wrong with you? You can’t talk to her like that.”

“I’ll talk to her any way I like if she’s interfering in my case,” Sherlock bit back, his attention on his phone.

Molly, impotent and not wanting to be the cause of a spat between the partners, hurried into the kitchen. “Would anyone like coffee or tea?”

John and Sherlock continued to bicker and made no answer. She made it to the kitchen, hating the tear which escaped down her cheek. Wiping it away, she put the kettle on and turned on the taps to wash up the few dishes in the sink. Anything to give herself something to do.

“You all right there, Miss?”

It was Wiggins. She smiled as big as she could. “Fine. Just a little tired. I think after you all leave, I’m going to pop off to bed.”

Too late, she remembered how like Sherlock he was.

Those large eyes of his seemed to stare right through her, like an x-ray. The difference was, where Sherlock was trying to uncover a secret, Wiggins actually seemed to care. “You’re not a bad liar, but my gut tells me you’re not as tired as you put on. Mr. ’Olmes said I should always trust my gut.”

The kettle started to sound for attention; so she was saved from having to respond. After the tea had brewed a few minutes, she poured a dash of milk into the cup and after adding the tea and some sugar, handed it to him.

“How did you know how I took it?” he asked.

“I—” She broke off, abashed to admit she’d automatically prepared it the way Sherlock liked it. Instead of replying, she smiled, shrugged, and sorted out her own teacup.

“You should wear your hair down more often. Makes you look real pretty; it does.”

Molly’s free hand flew to her hair. Having kipped on the sofa all night, she had no delusions that it didn't look a fright. Probably like she'd been through some kind of wind tunnel. Still, she blushed under the weight of his compliment and reached down to adjust the top of the baby pink pyjama set she was wearing.

“Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind. You should call me Molly, especially if you’re going to be Sherlock's protégé. Since I'm living here for a bit, I expect we’ll see each other every now and again.”

“Molly,” Wiggins repeated, as though testing the name on his tongue. “Molly. That’s nice. Suits you.” He toasted her with his cup. “Pretty name for a pretty lady.”

“Thank you. What’s your first name? Surely you don’t go by Wiggins all the time?”

“Call me Bill, if you like.”

“Bill,” she repeated. “Much nicer than Wiggins, if you don’t mind me saying. Still, if I had to guess, I’d say you look much more like a William. It has a regal sound to it, don’t you think?”

“Regal?” he asked with a laugh. “Me?”

“Yeah, like the prince or like this man I had to autopsy one time. He was a baronet or something like that. His name I’ll never forget. William Pritchard Pringle Prentiss. Most regal man I ever had on the slab. You can be like him.” The second the words left her mouth, she realized how awful they sounded.

 _Shit! Did I really just tell him he could be like a dead man?_ "S-S-Sorry. I got a tad carried away there. I didn't mean it like that. I mean, like you remind me of a dead man. You don’t. You’re nothing like him. He’s dead after all and titled while you’re just a—” She paused and closed her eyes, trying to collect herself before she made this any worse. _Not possible at this point._ “I … I’ll call you whatever you like."

Molly looked up to find him staring down at her. She’d expected him to be surprised, mortified, offended, or even mockingly derisive. Instead, he seemed bemused.

“William’s fine. Me Gram used to call me that. I’d like it if you did too, Molly.”

She smiled, all anxiety melting away at his easy acceptance.

“Billy, if you could possibly tear yourself away from such scintillating conversation, John and I are trying to solve a major crime in here and you did say you wanted to attend. Have you changed your mind?” a deep voice said.

They both turned. Sherlock was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. William looked to his mentor for a moment, sent a quick glance back at Molly, and then returned to Sherlock. The two men shared a pensive stare. Surprisingly, Sherlock was the first to break away, looking down to study his nails as if he were bored. With that small gesture, finally, William gave a quick nod, shoved his half-finished cup of tea at her, and issued a muffled “Thanks” as he exited the kitchen. 

Molly expected Sherlock to follow suit. He didn’t. Instead, he just looked at her. It wasn't the usual analyzing scan. It was like he saw something about her that alarmed him and couldn't seem to decide whether to run or to stay and fight. Then, like a dry-erase marker wiping off a board, all emotion vanished from his face, leaving him with nothing but a blank expression. Molly steeled herself, aware of what would come next. She'd known the man in front of her too long not to. Sherlock was about to tear her to shreds. Why, she didn’t know. But it was going to happen nonetheless.

_We’ll see about that._

“Making friends?” he asked.

“Yes. William is very nice.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “a nice, drug addict.”

“So are you.”

He blinked as her verbal blow glanced off of him. “I am currently off drugs. Billy, however, is not. His last fix, by the way his hands are shaking, was two days ago. He'll need another soon.”

“So?” She knew where he was going with this, but she wasn’t going to make it easy. He was going to have to say it.

“It’s been my experience that you don’t like drug addicts.”

“I have no problem with drug addicts. They should be pitied and supported when they are ready to receive assistance.”

“Is that what you slapping me that day was? Assistance?”

“No.”

“No?” he asked, stepping towards her. “Then what was it?”

She held his gaze, anger fueling her every word. “Disappointment.”

“I disappointed you?” He sneered. “Get used to that.”

She ignored his condescension. “You disappointed all of us. You are a far better man than you were in that moment. Can’t you see that? You put everything you’d worked for—your own life even—in danger and for what? A case?”

“I did what needed to be done.”

“You could have found another way.”

“There wasn't another way.”

“There wasn't another way that also let you shoot heroin, you mean. You went too far, Sherlock. I slapped you because you needed to know that. You were losing focus of what was important. Case or not, you must have boundaries; someone to—”

“Molly, I already have a mother. Two, if one counts Mycroft. I hardly need another.” Sherlock took an additional step forward, his eyes wilder than she’d ever seen him exhibit. “And even if I did need yet another individual in my life to regulate my choices, the last person I’d ever choose is you.”

Molly flinched. She couldn’t help it, but she did maintain eye contact with him. “I don’t want that.”

“No, you want something far worse, don’t you? Well, you can’t have it.” His hands gripped her shoulders tightly. “Do you hear me? Do you understand? You'll never have it. Not from me, and certainly not from Billy.”

He was deliberately trying to scare her now. Showing himself at his worst. Molly could see it just as easily as Sherlock could deduce a cheating spouse. The question was why? He was trying to warn her away from William. But to go to this extent to do so? Why did it matter if she thought well of William? It wasn’t as if she had feelings for him or was considering replacing Sherlock for—

“Oh my God,” she murmured as the answer became as clear as an empty Petrie dish.

He frowned. “What?”

“You’re jealous.”


	14. Cruel To Be Kind

Sherlock was callous, egotistical, tactless, cold, and often obtuse when it came to considering the wants, needs, and feelings of others. He’d admit that freely. He was also ruthless, insolent, and, on occasion, immature. But one adjective which could never accurately be used to describe him was—

“Jealous.”

“What?”

Molly eyes glittered daringly. “I said you’re jealous.”

His mocking laugh was almost a reflex. “Jealous? Don’t flatter yourself.”

She said nothing, just kept staring at him in that patiently placating way that always left him feeling threatened and oddly comforted at the same time. _How does she do that?_

She could not be allowed to believe this. First, the very notion of him being jealous over any of her would-be lovers was laughable. Second, it wasn’t true. Third, it _really_ wasn’t true. Fourth, if it was true, it could ruin … it _would_ ruin everything _._

_No, this must end now._

“Molly, you misunderstand my objective in bringing Billy’s proclivities to your attention,” he said, studying his nails. Anything so he wouldn’t have to see her face right now. “I was simply trying to warn you—as I am given to understand any friend would.” He spared her a brief glance before returning his attention to dislodging a rather stubborn hangnail. “One would think after all the trouble you had with Tom, you’d stop seeking out inadequate imitations of me. But if you wish to add a homeless addict with hygiene deficiencies and mummy issues to your list of unsuitable boyfriends, who am I to stand in your way?”

She didn’t reply. Sherlock pushed forward, intent on ending this once and for all. He looked up and with his best smirk, dropped his final barb. “While Billy’s not a sociopath, his keen intelligence and skills in observation certainly put him a step above Meat Dagger.”

Molly blinked once. Pause. Then, a second, longer blink. Finally, there was a slight crinkling of her brow which bespoke of curiosity. Besides these minute actions, however, there was no other outward response. She didn’t finch or seem hurt or indignant. Even the pitch of her breathing remained unchanged.

_React, you bloody woman. I had to have hurt or at the very least, offended you. Do something!_

Then, as if she’d somehow heard his thoughts, she strode towards him. Sherlock backed up. Realizing how this might appear as though he were retreating, he held his ground and let her advance. There was barely a hair’s breadth of space between them when she stopped.

 _What’s she planning?_ What would she do now? What was she thinking? As well as he knew her, as much as he’d always considered her to be one of the most woefully responsible and predictable people he knew, Molly Hooper was an enigma to him in this moment. Would she strike him? Sherlock hoped she would. He preferred anger. Anger he could read. Anger he could understand. Anger he could handle. But Molly didn’t even look cross. She didn’t _look_ anything. He groaned internally. This composed façade she was wearing was as immune to his deductive powers as Irene Adler’s nakedness had been so long ago. Was he losing his touch or was this something else entirely?

Panic welled like puss oozing from an infected wound, but he held it off.

“If Billy is what you want, of course,” he said, trying again to throw her off center, “I will—”

Sherlock fell mute as Molly took his hand in hers. He flinched at the touch, but that didn’t stop his traitorous fingers from reflexively wrapping themselves around hers. Her skin was soft, softer than it should have been considering what she did with her hands on a daily basis. Her palm was cool, cooler than he’d expected, the bones of her hand so petite and fragile enveloped within his.

He could break her if he wanted.

Not just hurt her for her own good, to remind her of boundaries and of what an absolute bastard he could be. No, he could completely destroy her. It would be so easy. Sherlock looked down at this bold little creature before him, losing himself for a bit in the amiable, brown depths of her eyes. They were so inviting and inquisitive and kind. They’d always been so. That someone could be as smart and clever as his pathologist obviously was and such a dupe at the same time was a case he would never fully be able to solve.

 _What was I thinking again? Oh yes!_ He could break her if he wanted. He’d always known it. Not only was he infinitely more intelligent than she was, but Sherlock didn’t have the burden of a tender heart and all that caring Molly did for any poor sod who crossed her path. There was also the very telling fact that he physically towered over her diminutive frame. Everything about him was—in comparison to her—bigger, harder, stronger, better. The most trivial thing could crush her. Didn’t she understand that? She must and yet, like a moth to the flame destined to consume it out of existence, she kept bringing herself nearer and nearer to him. Was she unaware of the danger or did she just not care?

He could break her if he wanted. It would be so easy, but Sherlock had always gone out his way to help her. Pointing out her fashion and make up missteps when she was painfully unaware; informing her of the flaws of her boyfriends to save her from probable heartache; telling her that she counted when she’d wrongly deduced that she didn’t, complimenting her obvious skills in pathology by allowing her to help him in his cases and experiments; and whenever possible, stopping her from wreaking her macabre humor and social inadequacies on their shared group of associates to spare her from certain public humiliation.

He could break her if he wanted. But Sherlock didn’t want to. As much as she’d always been so predictable and amenable and benign and responsible and—if he were being completely honest—boring, there was a part of Sherlock Holmes which needed Molly Hooper to be that way. She was a safe harbor, a luxury he rarely allowed himself to savor. But he did with her. He needed her to remain in the role to which he had assigned as much as he needed John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade to do the same. Things made sense that way. Life seemed less … wrong, more ... right. Didn’t she understand the chaos that could come if she didn’t stay where she was put? Hadn’t she seen the damage John’s departure, marriage, and fatherhood had wrought a once-ordered consulting detective’s life? Even now, Sherlock could see faults in his process that hadn’t been there before. Any more change and he wasn’t sure what would happen. Couldn’t Molly understand that some things were best left as they were?

As if to remind him of her presence, she squeezed his hand, still staring up at him expectantly. So expectantly. Why was she pushing this? Even if he could allow himself to feel something _more_ for her, didn’t she realize how much being with someone like him would break her? And he would. He wouldn’t be able to help himself. She would selflessly give him love—love he could never accept, much less give—and in return, he’d break her, utterly destroy this selfless, genuine, lovely, generously-perfect angel in front of him.

 _No._ The mere thought left him disgusted. _No!_ She deserved better. Sherlock knew his limitations. He always had. He hadn’t wanted to be her friend, hadn’t wanted to take on the obligations which went along with that. But he had. He’d done it for her, to repay her for all the kindnesses, patience, and assistance she’d given to him. Why couldn’t she accept that and let all the rest of this go? Why did she always have to keep pushing? Moreover, why did he care? What difference did it matter if she wanted to fall in love with Billy or any other man who reminded her of the consulting detective she couldn’t have? Why did it bother him so much? Why did the very thought of his pathologist staring up at the heroin-addicted vagabond with those brown eyes and that sincere smile of hers make him want to throw the lad out the nearest window?

_Am I jealous? Is she right?_

Sherlock shuddered and felt his breath hitch most unwillingly. _No. No. No! Not possible._ _I’m trying to save her from being hurt, delivering a kindness as it were. That is all._

But that wasn’t how it felt. What was happening to him? He needed to break this infernal spell she was somehow weaving about him. _Now._ Without warning, he yanked his hand back. Molly was too close. Why was she always too close? He felt suffocated by her very presence. She had to back up, stop looking at him that way, and for God’s sake, stop touching him. She had to. Immediately. Before he— _No, that doesn’t even bear considering_.

He released a loud sigh so she’d know just how put out he was. “Molly, what must I say to get you to cease your obsession with me? I am content to reciprocate your desire for friendship. However, I will never allow myself to indulge in amorous intentions regarding you. And,” he said with an indignant chuckle, “that you think I’d ever stoop to being jealous of one of your many romantic interests is not only ridiculous, but nothing short of insulting. You—”

“I never claimed your jealousy was based on romantic intent.”

 _What? How?_ Cold slivers of raw fear shot through his body. His mind raced at this revelation. What had he missed? How had it happened? What other kind of jealousy could she be speaking of? Why else would she think he was—Their friendship. That was it. She’d believed him to be jealous she was making a new friend. One who would replace him? _Preposterous!_ As if anyone could be the friend to her that he could. Humiliation ruled him as considered everything he’d said and the possible implications she might take away from it. What was she thinking now?

She smiled, but not because she was cheered. No, this smile was too emotionless to be an expression of any kind of joy. It was very similar to one he often employed right before he was going to let someone have it. She also arranged her small frame until she was standing as straight as a board. It was like she’d become numb when it came to him. He hated that. Not only because it was so unlike his pathologist to be so cold, but also because he knew the cause of this numbness was him. _Have I already broken her?_ His heart stuttered at the very idea.

“Sherlock, I’d never consider that any feelings you might have for me are romantic in nature. The very notion is absurd, isn’t it?”

“Exactly.” He swallowed. Hard. “Absurd.”

Molly’s rigid gaze pinned him down like a collector would an insect. Sherlock couldn’t look away. He felt naked and exposed and trapped before her. The tables were very much turned. She wasn’t broken after all. Instead, she seemed … stronger than he’d ever seen her before. How was that possible? Whatever power he’d had before was long gone. He’d revealed too much. Unwittingly, of course, but he’d still done it. That had to be it. Taking it back was a coward’s move, and he’d never been a coward.

Would she call him out as a liar? He fought to calm himself. Panic would only make this worse. He hadn’t lied. He hadn’t.

_Did I?_

He shoved that traitorous thought away. Panic. That’s all it was. He had to control this situation before she started to actually believe he did have romantic feelings for her. Everything would be ruined if he didn’t act quickly. If she spoke again, he feared he’d be completely undone. Why that was or what she might say to induce such a reaction escaped him, but there it was.

_If Molly ever realizes her full power in her relationship with you, Sherlock Holmes, you are in deep trouble._

Mary’s words from all those weeks ago reverberated in his mind. Is this what she had meant? As his mind furiously raced to think of something— _anything_ —to put this matter at an end, to bring back the pliable, overemotional friend he could always count on, a threat far more formidable formed in his mind as he watched Molly’s small mouth open as she prepared to speak. _Good God._

She could break him if she wanted.

**—RE—**

 

“Sherlock, I thought we needed to leav—Everything all right in here?”

Molly ceased her reply in the wake of John’s entrance to the kitchen. She backed away from Sherlock, sure whatever she had to say wouldn’t have mattered to him anyway. No doubt, he would have only derided her further for thinking him capable of jealousy in the first place.

There had been a moment, though. A moment, in its smallest measurement, when she’d thought she’d seen a spark of something _different_ flare within him. Unbidden, her heart had soared in her chest. _Could it be?_ Was this why he’d been so touchy last night? Why he’d been so unreasonably angry and cutting to her today? It explained so much. For some foolish reason, she’d had to touch him, trying to prove he felt something. But just as the idea began to marinate in her mind, she pushed it away. This was Sherlock Holmes. He hadn’t jerked away when she touched him this time. He had ever wrapped his fingers around hers. She’d even squeezed his hand, trying to illicit some kind of response, but there was nothing. He merely stared down at her and let her hold his hand, almost as if he were waiting for her to come to the realization of how wrong she was all on her own.

That was when she knew it could only have been wishful thinking on her part. _Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Molly, when will you ever learn?_ Undoubtedly, it was their constant close proximity which had him so edge. He was used to having more privacy and less hovering. Men, she knew full well, did not like hovering.

But, no matter how much he protested otherwise, she also knew he was jealous. But his jealousy stemmed in the fact that he didn’t want any other man like him in her life. No, Sherlock Holmes always wanted to be the center of attention and for everyone to know how one-of-a-kind he was. Moreover, no matter how much he obviously didn’t want her in a romantic fashion, he did seem to revel in her feelings for him and wanted nothing to change them.

It was much the same, she supposed, as his relationship with John. He adored how much his partner both affirmed and gloried in his brilliance and how much John understood and wanted to be a part of the fervor that drove him to test his cleverness against the most sullied of criminals and murders in the world. Having to share John with Mary—as much as Sherlock seemed to like her—was not an easy task for the consulting detective. Having his former flatmate’s attention further divided by the addition of a baby couldn’t have helped matters.

 _And now there’s me and William._ Molly shook her head in dismay, not bothering to say anything to the two men talking in the kitchen, as she moved past them and into the lounge. She considered going to her room, but that felt too much like running away and she was tired of running away where Sherlock Holmes was concerned. It never changed anything. Sherlock was Sherlock and would be that way until he was dead. She thought she’d accepted that, but life seemed intent to prove just how wrong she was in that belief. _He’s my friend. Why isn’t that enough? Why must I always want more? Why must I always be this stupid?_

William was standing by the door, frantically typing on his mobile and muttering to himself. There was a slight tremor to his hands she couldn’t help but notice now. _He’s not the only addict in the room,_ she thought. _I’m just as bad when it comes to Sherlock, aren’t I?_

She resumed her position on the sofa and pulled the blanket up. William glanced up at her and opened his mouth as if to inquire after her well-being. However, Sherlock and John’s return to the room stifled that. She turned her attention to the blanket wrapped around her so she wouldn’t have to look at Sherlock. It would only make her feel more humiliated.

The coverlet was baby blue in color and bordered with a wide, bedraggled ribbon, but with a softness that came from countless washings. As light as the material was, it was warm. How it had gotten on this sofa, much less on her while she was sleeping, she didn’t know. Had Mrs. Hudson come in during the night? It didn’t seem possible, but what other explanation could there be? Molly had just made up her mind to thank the landlady for her kindness when she heard Sherlock speak.

“You’re overreacting again, John.”

“You know what happened the last time you said that, right? Or do I need to remind you?”

“Threatening me with physical violence won’t change my mind. You’ll get your answers when we get there. Don’t worry. I have a flawless plan.”

“I’ve heard that before. In fact, your last flawless plan ended up with you being shot.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I never said that plan was flawless. There were outside variables in that case I didn’t take into consideration.” He eyed his friend in a way that clearly stated “Don’t say another word,” which made Molly think there was a lot more to the subject than was being said.

He slipped his Belstaff on and flipped up the collar. Molly was sure she was the only one to catch the slight wince as he’d finished his task. His ribs were evidently still bothering him, but she knew better than to bring attention to that fact. No, she’d had enough rowing with Sherlock Holmes to last her a while. In fact, she was glad to be rid of him for a few hours.

“Billy? Is it ready?”

William nodded. “Outside waiting for us.”

“Perfect. See, John?” he asked, with a gleeful grin. “Flawless plan.”

“Famous last words,” John answered bitterly before turning to her. “Molly, we shouldn’t be gone too long.”

She nodded, unsure why he felt the need to tell her that.

“What do you think, Sherlock?” he said, looking back to his friend. “A few hours?”

“I have no idea. This case is an eight at least. I, for one, plan to enjoy it as long as possible.” And with that, the great detective swept from the room and down the stairs.

John shot her an apologetic shrug before clambering out the door after his friend. Molly fingered the blanket, telling herself that she didn’t care about Sherlock’s lack of manners. How many times had he done the same thing in the lab? She was supposed to drop everything the second he arrived, but he could leave without a word whenever he wanted. Honestly, at times like this, she wasn’t even sure why she wanted to be friends with the man, much less anything else. He would be a crap boyfriend. She could see it now. They’d be snogging on the sofa and with one text, he’d be out the door without a word on the trail of some deranged killer. Then, he’d come back in the middle of the night and wake her up to give her all the gory details, his dark hair all windblown and his cheeks flushed with excitement. Or worse, he’d show up at her job to look at a body and maybe, after deducing that a victim was poisoned simply by looking at the way his tie was arranged, he’d expect her to drop everything so they could have a quick romp in the supply closet.

 _Actually_ , _those scenarios aren’t so bad_. _Especially if—_

The creak of a floorboard reminded her she wasn’t alone. Her head shot up and she found herself the subject of an in-depth stare. Her cheeks flooded with mortification as she was sure William knew what she’d been thinking of. But before she could open her mouth to even begin to explain, John returned to the room, grabbed William by the collar of his jacket and jerked him from the room.

Molly’s face fell into her palms. _Could this day get any worse?_ First, that awful row in the kitchen, then the reminder that she wasn’t as past loving Sherlock as she would have hoped at this point, and finally, she’d been caught having naughty daydreams about the consulting detective.

She groaned. “Kill me now, Lord. Anything is better than this.” How would she ever face William again? The mere thought of that pushed another wave of humiliation on her. When she couldn’t stand thinking about it anymore, she got to her feet, intent on staying busy. After a quick breakfast of scrambled egg and coffee, she cleaned the kitchen within an inch of its life and went upstairs to change clothes and brush her hair. Once she was done with that, she rigorously cleaned that room as well—even going so far as to change the sheets. She felt slightly better when she was done. It was as she after she’d brought her sheets down and put them in the wash and was passing the open door to the living space on her way back up that she noticed it.

Her belongings were everywhere. The films she’d watched throughout the week were still stacked in a crooked tower by the telly. The earrings she’d worn yesterday were on the coffee table. Two pairs of her shoes were in evidence, one under the desk and the other on the floor by the sofa. Her favorite jumper was draped over John’s chair and three—no four—of her books were scattered about the room.

_You forgot your place._

It felt like someone had doused her in a pail of ice water, but the truth was inescapable. That’s what Sherlock had been trying to tell her. She didn’t live here, not really. It was merely a stopover until Moriarty was dealt with. _No wonder he vowed to solve that case as quickly as possible. All the faster to get me out of his flat._ Likewise, as much as she was friends with Sherlock, she wasn’t ever going to anything more than that. Somehow, in the chaos of the last few weeks, she’d forgotten that. Seeing her things so haphazardly strewn about brought the point home far more effectively than any cutting remark from Sherlock could.

_Why am I here?_

She thought back to that evening long ago when Sherlock had strolled into her lab and announced that Mycroft was going to take her away. At the time, she’d thought she’d refused because she hadn’t wanted to give up living her life. Was that really it, though? Had she unconsciously thought by living here something would develop between them?

_Oh, Molly Hooper, you idiot._

Shaking her head, she hastened about, collecting her possessions. Tears came, but she ignored them, intent on wiping her very presence from the room. When all of her belongings were once again regulated to her— _John’s_ —room and everything was neat and tidy, she returned to the lounge. Where before she had considered herself a welcome flatmate, she now felt like a trespasser.

When the feeling became too much, Molly grabbed her keys and left the flat. She didn’t know where she was going and, at this moment, she didn’t care. She only knew she had to get there fast.


	15. Tying The Knot

“You know, for a brilliant man, you can be incredibly stupid sometimes.”

“Pardon?” Sherlock halted his stride to the car abruptly to stare down at the shorter man at his side. He’d been so caught up in trying to figure out why he wasn’t feeling his customary post-case euphoria that he was sure he hadn’t heard his partner right.

“You heard me.” John shot him a sneer and hurried on, shoulders hunched against the now misting rain.

Frowning in confusion, Sherlock flipped up his collar as he hastened forward to reach John’s car. Getting into the passenger side, he looked over at his friend, who now occupied the driver’s side. “Dare I remind you that I just caught a serial killer? How does that make me stupid?”

“Because you nearly got us killed in the process!”

 _Overreacting. Again._ “You were never truly in danger. As I told you before, my plan was flawless. In fact, it went so by design I was almost bored.”

“Bored? The priest tried to drug us with tea!”

“How else would he keep us weak enough to be strangled? It’s not as if we would’ve drunk it.”

“I would have!”

Now Sherlock was really confused. “Why?”

“Because some idiot neglected to inform me that the priest was, in fact, the suspect!”

“Why else would we be dressed in suits in a church on a Saturday morning?”

“Revisiting where we first met and fell in love on our anniversary, apparently,” John grumbled. “I could punch you for that alone.”

“All the other victims were gay and newly engaged. How else would—”

“How did you know that? You got a few photographs of dead, naked men and you somehow deduced that they were all gay and engaged?”

Sherlock shrugged. “They were. The last was even a couple.”

John turned away— _still in his snit_ —and shoved his keys into the ignition. “I don’t want to know how you figured that one out. I don’t even know why I asked.” As he put the car in gear, he snapped, “You know, I’m a married man. There was an announcement in the papers and everything.”

“Your point?”

 “My point is that even after marrying a woman and fathering a child with this same woman, people are still trying to make me out to be _your_ lover. Only this time, it was you doing it!” This was followed by a long, colorful stream of obscenities.

 _Does he really not get it?_ _Still?_ Sherlock had always assumed that settling into domestic felicity would make one’s instincts, wits and the like grow intolerably dull, but surely it wouldn’t have affected John this badly? And so soon? “Odds were the priest was going to know my face and yours and, therefore, our names and occupations. This would have raised suspicions. As he undoubtedly was targeting gay men and the rumors have long circulated that you and I are more than just business partners, it seemed reasonable that pretending to be a newly-engaged couple would—”

“Reasonable? ‘Reasonable’ he says! You proposed to me on bended knee in a Catholic church in front of a priest, Sherlock!”

 _Why is he stating the obvious?_ “You’re aware you’re screaming, right?”

When John then launched into a string of threats of how he was going to shove certain parts of his body in anatomically implausible places, Sherlock sighed. “Even Janine wasn’t this angry when she found out our engagement and relationship were counterfeit. As you clearly knew from the beginning I had no such designs on you and were aware enough of what I was doing to effusively accept my mock proposal, I really don’t understand all of this carrying on you’re doing.”

“You kissed me, you sod!”

“I was proposing in front of witnesses. A kiss is expected.”

John scowled but didn’t reply.

As his friend’s unwarranted anger only brought to mind Molly and the angst-ridden events which had unfolded in the kitchen this morning, Sherlock tried to inject a little humor in hopes of turning things around. _Anything to not have to think on Molly Hooper right now._ “John, you know I have no real designs on you, right? Are we going to have to have the ‘I’m-married-to-my-work’ discussion again?”

“Stop. Talking. Now.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to throw you out of the car if you don’t, you narcissistic git!”

As they were currently speeding down the street and he was experienced in exceeding the limits of his former flatmate’s temper, Sherlock decided remaining quiet was, for now, the safest and most logical course of action. _Evidently too early for humor._ Truly, as much as he enjoyed John’s companionship—especially when it came to cases—there were times when he was grateful they didn’t live together anymore. For a heterosexual male, the man was inexplicably moody at times. Lord knew how long this latest tizzy was going to last. Thankfully, working John through a temper tantrum was now Mary’s problem.

That last thought had Sherlock grinning. Of course, he made sure he was staring out the window when he made this facial expression as the last thing he needed was to incite John any further.

“So, let me see if I have this straight, Sherlock. The whole phony proposal and acting like a couple were done in the hopes that this priest would try to kill us? Well, at least I now understand why you made me remove my wedding ring before we exited the car.”

There was a long bout of silence before John said, “Are you going to answer me?”

“I believe you demanded I stop speaking.”

Sherlock ducked the fist that flew at his face, hearing it connect with the head rest with a sickening thud. _And_ , he thought, _having my instincts remain intact is yet another reason domestic felicity is not my area._

Retracting his hand, John spared him a glower before returning his attention to the road. “Explain,” he said through gritted teeth. “It’s the least you can do after you dragged me out of bed, had me do your shopping, made me dress in a suit, forced me to act as your fake fiancé, almost got me killed, and had me climbing a bell tower with you trying to corner a psychopathic, homophobic priest with gay marriage issues and a gun.”

Sherlock grinned again. “Yeah, it was fun, wasn’t it? With his profession and preferred method of murder being strangulation, I must say the gun was an unexpected development. But I did have you bring yours just in case.”

John groaned as though heavily put upon. “Did you always know it was him?”

“Of course not. I narrowed it down to that particular area of London and used Billy to do a little checking for me. There were two churches in that area and three priests it could have been. That is why we had to go in person as a love-struck couple. It was fortuitous Father Patrick was at the first one we dealt with.”

“You were going to do the mock proposal three times?”

He shrugged. “If need be. Why?”

John groaned again. “And Wiggins knew?”

“Yes.”

“No wonder he wanted to come with us! Probably the best entertainment he’s had in ages. And you let him!”

“I needed him to call Lestrade at the appropriate time. That’s why he was there.”

“And you couldn’t let me in on the plan?”

“John, you know you’re a horrible actor. If I told you I was going to propose, you wouldn’t have been able to feign surprise with any kind of realism.” Sherlock didn’t point out that he was also fairly confident John would have also refused to participate. “Couldn’t have the priest getting suspicious, could we?”

There was a long pause where John repeatedly inhaled and exhaled heavy breaths. Finally, he said, “You’re unbelievable.”

Sherlock frowned, unsure if this was a compliment. “Thank you?”

“An unbelievable arse, that is!”

“What?” He ignored John’s continued glare even as they pulled into Baker Street. “Come now, John. You had fun today, too. Stop being such a spoil sport. Besides, I got you a great ring, did I not?” He smirked. “Or rather, Mycroft did.”

He ducked again as an object flew at his head. From the size and the loud _chink_ it made as it hit the window and bounced into the backseat, he assumed that was, in fact, the ring. “Feel free to keep or sell it. Whatever you like.”

Sherlock didn’t wait for a response as he got out of the car and scurried up to his front door. He rather hoped, given his former flatmate’s state of temper, John would take this as an opportunity to drive home to his wife. But as Sherlock heard the driver’s side door slam, he knew that wasn’t going to happen. Of course, the second both men were inside the building, John launched into a rant which continued up the stairs and right outside the door of 221B. Sherlock was sure the tirade had something to do with John’s dislike of today’s activities, but as everything had gone so well, he couldn’t really be bothered to care.

If this kept up, he might find himself actually wanting to deal with Molly. She, at least, didn’t try to punch him or throw him out of moving vehicles. He pushed open the door and after removing his coat, tie and suit jacket, plopped down in his favorite chair. John, meanwhile, took ownership of his usual chair and continued his rant.

“I swear to God if you ever again—”

“Call it, 'The Crosses I Bear,'” Sherlock said with a grin.

“Call what, what?”

“The blog post you will inevitably write up concerning today’s events. You can call it ‘The Crosses I Bear.’ You can get all your ranting out and your audience will appreciate the wit. Puns are the oldest form of humor, you know.”

“No.”

“No, you didn’t know or—”

“No!”

Sherlock sighed. “Fine. Call it whatever you like. You will anyway. I can’t tell you how scintillating it was to read the one you dubbed ‘The Adventure of the Red Circle.’ No doubt, any generic title is enough to snag your readers’ interests.”

“You’re insane if you think I’m going to tell anyone what happened today, and I’m _certainly_ not going to post it to the internet for the world to see.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Why not! He proposes marriage, nearly gets me killed, and now he wants me to write about it with all the papers trying to make us a couple with every article they print? You are the largest, most ridiculously—”

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin and did what he did best when John was like this: Ignore everything, feign listening, and mumble agreements every few minutes to shut him up. Meanwhile, he relived the memory of running up the bell tower and capturing the priest and most of all, having his deductions about the murderer and his motives corroborated by said murderer. The priest had been trying to kill them at the time, of course, but he’d still said it. That was the important part, the best part for Sherlock, finding out his deductions had led him to the correct conclusion.

Strangely, reliving it brought him no pleasure. In fact, he felt the same way he had before he’d received the case. Frustrated and … something. It wasn’t boredom or anger or exhaustion or any other feeling he was used to dealing with. Whatever it was had knotted itself inside of him like some kind of parasite. After hours of trying to dislodge it, he’d taken a case, hoping to force it away or, at the very least, help him ignore it. But somehow, in the midst of everything, the knot inside him had expanded to claim more territory.

“You’re not even listening, are you?”

Sherlock blinked and looked over. “Yes?”

John closed his eyes. “Why am I surprised? You’re always going to be … _you_ , aren’t you?”

“Who else would I be?”

“Sherlock—”

Afraid John was going to initiate another outburst on the dos and don’ts of casework, Sherlock interrupted. “Doesn’t Mary have need of you?”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

As he knew “Yes” would only make John stay longer, he said, “No. Merely … wondering.”

“I texted her earlier. Told her I would be later than expected.”

“Why? We’re home now.”

“We need to talk about Molly.”

Sherlock pushed himself up from his seat. He should have known putting John off as easily as he had in the kitchen earlier wouldn’t last. He walked over to his desk and opened his laptop, intent on checking his email. “There’s nothing to discuss.”

“Something is going on between you two. You were rude to her all morning.”

“I’m always like that.”

“No, you’re tactless, woefully unable to pick up on social cues, and an appalling bad kisser—”

“You didn’t think I was truly trying to kiss you, did you?”

John refused to be waylaid. “—but you’re never needlessly rude—especially to Molly, especially ever since you came back from the dead.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Am I? Am I imagining that Wiggins came running out of the kitchen like a kicked dog the second you went in there or that, by the time I came in, you and Molly looked ready to start brawling or snogging? Honestly, I couldn’t tell which.”

“I would never hit Molly.”

“I guess that leaves the snogging then, eh?” John asked, with a grin.

Sherlock turned away, detesting that he’d walked right into that and hating how close his friend was to the truth. “There is nothing going on between me and Molly—never has been and never will be. She is simply staying here until the Moriarty case is dealt with.”

“Even though you told me Moriarty is dead?”

“He _is_ dead.”

“Then, if he’s dead, she doesn’t need to stay here.”

That got Sherlock's full attention. “What are you talking about?”

John sighed, as though he thought his friend were slow-witted. Sherlock hated that, too. “Molly is being protected because Moriarty would be after her for helping you.”

“Yes. So?”

“So, if Moriarty is dead, then no one is after Molly.”

“But someone is using Moriarty to keep me in London and to cause mayhem, someone who stole his body from a locked facility where it was being stored.”

“Why didn’t they just cremate the body?”

“Mycroft was having some tests run. I don’t really know what type. I don’t care. All I know is that the body was stolen and hasn’t been found.”

“Then my point is still valid.”

“That point being?” Sherlock asked.

“If Moriarty is dead, Molly isn’t in danger. Whoever is using his face—and body—is doing so as a cover. There is no reason to assume they know or even care about Molly’s involvement in faking your death. Therefore, she is free to live wherever she wants.”

“We don’t know that for sure. It’s best if she stays here for now.”

“Best for whom?”

Sherlock turned his full body to stare John down. “What are you getting at?”

“Has Molly put the same clues together and asked to move out? Is that what you two were going on about this morning, why you were so mad at her? She wants to move out and you don’t want to be alone again?”

Sherlock gaped at John, unsure whether to be happy he was so off point or irritated that his friend was an idiot. Finally, he exhaled heavily and turned back to the laptop. “You know,” he said, recalling John’s earlier statement, “for a somewhat intelligent man, you are incredibly stupid _a lot_.”

“If that’s not it, what is it?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Wiggins is—”

“Will you stop calling him that? His name is Billy. Call him Billy.”

“He prefers Wiggins. I’ll call him Wiggins.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth, remembering how Molly had called him “William.” Why could no one call the man by his true name? Was it really so hard?

“What was that?”

“What was what?” Sherlock asked.

“You said something about Molly calling him William.”

“I did?” As Sherlock didn’t remember speaking aloud about that, he kept his eyes focused on the laptop so John couldn’t see the mortification on his face. “Why would I care what Molly calls anyone?”

John squinted at Sherlock, scrutinizing him in a way that left the consulting detective feeling uneasy and exposed, so much so that he jumped to his feet. “I’m going to bed.”

“What?”

“Been up for an age. Really tired now. You’ll see yourself out, John?”

“If Molly wants to move out, she—”

Sherlock, who had been on his way to his room, pivoted to stare the doctor down. “Molly can leave whenever she likes. I assure you I will relish living alone again. Not having to wait to use my own toilet, not having her books lying everywhere, not tripping over her shoes as they are always—” He stopped as he began to notice something.

 “What?” John asked, apparently catching on that something was out of order. “Did Mrs. Hudson clean again? Sherlock, there is nothing wrong with the woman wanting to remove several inches of dust from the room. You should be grateful, not—”

“Molly’s belongings are missing.”

“What?”

Sherlock waved a hand about, exasperated his companion couldn’t understand. “Molly had several items scattered about this room. They’re all missing.”

John shrugged. “Maybe she put them away. People do that every now and again, you know.”

Irritation festered. “No,” he said as he walked into the kitchen. It was cleaned in a sparse, regimented style that was Molly’s signature. It was how she kept the lab and how she’d kept her own kitchen he’d noticed the few times he’d been in her old flat. Everything in its place. No frills, bits of decoration or “homey touches” like Mrs. Hudson often employed which usually drove him insane.

“See?” John said, coming in behind him. “Molly just cleaned up a bit. You should thank her. I bet she’s upstairs right now sleeping off this morning.”

Sherlock’s eyes zeroed in on the side of the sink. The spoon was missing. Every day since her first morning after moving in, Molly used a single spoon to stir sugar into her coffee. Instead of just tossing it in the sink and grabbing another when she made a second cup, she kept the spoon on a daintily folded paper towel next to the sink. No matter what, the spoon stayed on the paper towel until the next morning, when she would replace it with a clean one.

Now it was missing. He went to the freezer and pulled it open, quickly counting. Five. There were five cups of sorbet there, the exact number that had been in there since the previous evening when she’d indulged. He’d upset her earlier—he knew he had—but she hadn’t turned to sorbet to drown her sorrows.

 _Bad sign._ He slammed the freezer door shut and hastened from the kitchen, John at his heels. “What is going on, Sherlock?”

This continued as he took the steps to her room at a run. He was overreacting. He knew he was. Sherlock could check his phone to see that he was, but he didn’t. The need to see her in person was eating at him.

“If she’s sleeping, you’re going to disturb her,” John warned.

Sherlock ignored this and banged open her door. The room was empty and pristinely cleaned. Even the bed was made with military precision. Not a speck of dust was anywhere, and all of Molly’s belongings were put in their proper locations. And there, sitting on the chest of drawers mocking him, was her purse and mobile.

“Damn.”

He jerked his phone out even as John started coming up with excuses. “Maybe she went to Tesco.”

“Without her purse? How would she pay for anything?” Sherlock said as he dialed Mycroft and held the phone to his ear.

“Maybe she swiped your card. I used to do that quite a bit when we lived together.”

“Only because I allowed it, and it meant you went to the store without whining incessantly.”

Mycroft picked up. “To what do I owe the pleasure of an actual call, brother dear?”

“Where’s Molly?”

“What makes you think I have her?”

“You have men watching this flat night and day, Mycroft. I know you know where she is.”

“Maybe she went into work,” John added.

Sherlock glared at him. “She switched with another doctor. This is her free weekend.”

John frowned. “Maybe she went in to get away from you. Whatever happened between you two in the kitchen obviously upset her.”

“Emotion getting to you, Sherlock?” Mycroft crooned from over the phone. “Warned you about that. You’re overreacting. She’s still in the flat, most likely bemoaning this morning.”

“No, she’s not. I’m telling you she’s not.”

There was a long moment of strange clicking noises coming from Mycroft’s end of the extension. “No one saw her leave. She must still be in the flat.”

“She wouldn’t leave without telling someone and making sure she was seen. She’s too worried about Moriarty.”

“Unless you really did upset her and she took off without thinking,” John suggested. At Sherlock’s pointed glare, he grabbed his own mobile. “I’ll just ring Bart’s, and see if she’s there.”

Mycroft, who apparently heard John’s statement, said, “That is the problem with sentiment, Sherlock. Makes one do illogical things.”

“Just find her,” Sherlock said, ringing off because he didn’t want to hear any more.

Icy tendrils of raw, irrational fear flowed through him into the knot in his stomach as he waited for John. He tried to shut it off, to keep his mind focused on logic. This was the way to find her. She was fine. She had to be. The knot expanded again, threatening to explode until he was ready to scream in agony and frustration. What if she wasn’t? _What if you chased her away and she’s in danger right now because of you? What then?_

Before he could come up with any kind of answer, John was off the phone, having verified what Sherlock already knew. Molly was not at work.

Fear took over then


	16. The Other One

When it came to brainwork, there was no room for panic. Composure and rationality were vital tools needed to sift through the often mundane details of a case to reach the correct conclusion. Having one’s acumen compromised was not an option. Moreover, emotion was best dealt with in minimal doses, quickly compartmentalized and compressed in favor of retaining control over one’s mind at all times. This last was a lesson drilled into Sherlock from a young age, always by Mycroft.

Sherlock agreed with his older brother. Never to his face, of course— _Let’s not be ridiculous_ —but he knew an overabundance of sentiment could leave one blind to that which should be observed. Or, in his particular experience, a surplus of emotion and panic meant he saw _everything_. The details of the room fairly shouted at him. Like a crush of people all crying out to be heard at once, one couldn’t process any of what was being said, couldn’t put the data points together to form any inferences.

Years ago, he’d learned this left him blind and frustrated which, in turn, caused his feelings and panic to run higher and the details to come to him faster and faster until he was fairly drowning in an emotional tailspin of useless information.

_No, that is the surest way to insanity._

It was one of the reasons he’d first turned to opioids. To calm the insanity. Often, he yearned for the feeling of not caring about anything. It was blissful, that level of numbness mixed with euphoria. But the drugs, like everything else in his life, soon brought with them another level of madness. Later, he turned to them as an outlet when there were no cases, needing a controlled madness to keep his brain from burning itself up.

 _No good. Concentrate. Molly. Must find Molly._ He scanned the room, trying to put together an answer from the clues left behind. _Find her, damn you._ But there were too many things to see and none of them helped him form a deduction to give him the answer he sought. His panic heightened. Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to focus on breathing.

“She’s fine,” John said.

“I know that,” he barked. “Be quiet.”

He got a moment of heavenly silence before his former flatmate launched another attempt at ineffectual consolation.

“Molly was upset this morning. I could tell. She probably took off without thinking. Just to get some space. You’re intolerable when you’re in high temper, you know.”

Sherlock ignored all of this. The last thing he needed was a reminder of everything he’d said to her.

_My fault._

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

_In through the nose and out through the mouth._

_Accelerated heart rate._

_Relax shoulders, unclench hands, focus on breathing and nothing else._

_Compartmentalize and compress._

“No one came in here. There’s—”

His eyes flashed open. “Shut up! Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think I didn’t see that everything is perfectly tidy, almost sterile? She cleaned because she was upset, more upset than a container of sorbet could abate. Additionally, there are no signs of struggle, everything is in its place. Every belonging of hers is currently in this room. Every one. She moved them here on purpose because—”

He couldn’t finish. Not out loud. _Because I made her feel unwelcome, because I hurt her so much that she thought more about getting out than she did her safety. Stupid, stupid girl! Sentiment. A deadly cancer eating away at one’s reasoning skills._

Guilt and fear and a plethora of emotions he couldn’t begin to name, much less understand flooded him.

_Calm yourself. Find her and then you can make things right._

He cleared his throat and continued, “She made her bed.”

“So?”

“Molly only makes her bed when she’s expecting company or on Saturdays when she changes the sheets. Otherwise, she doesn’t see the logical purpose when she’ll only climb back into the bed again at the end of the day.”

“How do you even know that?”

“I pay attention,” he snapped. “My point is that this isn’t a kidnapping. Molly left of her own accord and quickly, taking only her keys with her.”

“You’d have thought she’d at least grabbed a brolly with all the rain—”

Something suddenly occurred to him, something he remembered seeing before that now made sense. _Damn sentiment. Damn Mycroft!_ He shot out of the bedroom, taking the stairs two at a time until he was in the lounge. His eyes locked on the tall, black umbrella currently propped against his sofa.

John was hot on his heels. “What? What is it?”

He held the offensive object up for inspection, knowing what he was looking for. “Recognize this?”

“What does a brolly have to do with—”

Sherlock found it. Holding the handle against his mouth, he said, “You have five minutes, brother, or I won’t be responsible for what happens next.”

“No need for threats, Sherlock. I’m right here.”

Both men turned to find Mycroft standing in the doorway, his standard sneer firmly in place and one eyebrow cocked smugly upward. “Found her yet?”

“Where is she?”

“What is going on?” John asked. “Someone needs to explain to the one human being in the room.”

Sherlock kept glaring at his elder sibling. “He installed a listening device on his umbrella and then conveniently left it behind so he could be nosy. Another experiment, Myc?”

Mycroft gave an indelicate shudder at his reviled nickname. “I did what was necessary. You’re a loose cannon these days. You know what happens when you’re like that. You’re already in enough trouble, don’t you think?”

“Let me see if I can guess the rest. You listen in and then conveniently drop by under the pretense of reclaiming your property. Except Molly’s emotions got the better of her, and she left before you could get here. Did you intercept her down the street? Just happened by when your men told you where she was? Then, you waited to see what would happen when I noticed she was gone?”

Mycroft stayed silent, his face a mask which gave away nothing.

The longer the silence lasted, the more frustration reigned. _Is there still time or has he already sent her off? Does he really think I can’t find her if he has?_ “Where is she now?”

Mycroft released an exasperated breath. “I tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t listen. Something needed to be done.”

“Yes, yes. I needed to learn my lesson. Where is she?”

“You’ve never learned your lesson when it comes to sentiment! That is the problem.”

“Where _is_ she?”

“How can you be expected to uncover Moriarty if you allow yourself to be so weakened? Do you think the Powers That Be are just going to let you remain free if you don’t find the person responsible for taking down most of the country’s communications systems?”

“Where. Is. She?”

“Her presence in this flat was compromising your work, a fact that needed to be demonstrated to you. Your reaction when you returned home as well as this obvious … temper tantrum is more than enough proof that you are woefully—”

“If I have to ask my question again, you’ll be moaning the answer through a breathing tube. You might be the smarter of the two of us, Mycroft, but I believe we can both agree I’m infinitely better when it comes to applying brute strength.”

With a snort of indignity, Mycroft stiffened. “She’s is at her friend’s house. Meena, I believe the woman’s name is. I dropped your pathologist off. She, of course, is being watched by my men. As I understand it, she is currently … What is the expression? ‘Crying her eyes out?’“ He smirked. “No doubt because you hurt her _feelings_.”

Relief rushed through Sherlock, the sensation more pleasurable than any hit of heroin had ever been. He closed his eyes briefly before opening them again. “You can go.” He gestured towards the door. “Don’t come back.”

“And what am I to tell my superiors, Sherlock? How much longer do you think I can hold them off with petty excuses? All these months, and you have nothing to show for it.”

“I’ve plenty to show for it.”

“Like what?”

“Not _what_ , brother dear, _whom_. I’ve got three suspects.”

That wiped the ingrained derision right off Mycroft’s face. “Three? Who? How?”

“It was simple, really. The fact that the Moriarty transmission took place just as I was about to leave on your suicide mission tells me whoever is behind it wanted me to stay in London. Alive.”

“Suicide mission?” John blurted, barging his way back into the conversation. “What are you talking about? Are you saying …? Oh my God.” He paled. “Do you mean to tell me that you … You were really going to … Without even telling me?”

Sherlock held up a hand. “Not now, John. You can hit me for not telling you later. Or better yet, deck Mycroft for coming up with the mission in the first place.”

John’s knees gave out on him, and he crashed to the sofa, seemingly unable to process what he’d heard. Sherlock ignored his best friend in favor of dealing with his sibling. “So I asked myself, who had the most to gain from my remaining here?”

“Who?” Mycroft asked, anticipation blazing in his eyes.

“Well, there’s the obvious choice. The Woman. She certainly knows enough people and has enough seductive prowess to find someone to get the job done. Plus, we all know she wouldn’t want to see me die.” He paused theatrically. “Sentiment and all.”

“Impossible.”

If Sherlock hadn’t been watching for it, he knew he would have missed it. The slight twitch in Mycroft’s jaw, the way his eyes darted away for the barest hint of a second. But Sherlock did see it. More importantly, he grinned so Mycroft would know he saw it.

“And why is it so impossible, Myc? Do you think she couldn’t have gotten loose from her witness protection scheme in America? That she wouldn’t grow bored? A woman like her? Or is there another reason her involvement would be impossible? Her death, perhaps?”

Mycroft looked at him. It was a measuring stare, one Sherlock was well used to and didn’t bother to conceal the truth from. “Well played, Sherlock. How long have you known?”

“Since long before you sent John to lie to me.”

John finally found his voice, sputtering as he tried to come up with some plausible explanation.

“Forget it,” Sherlock said, glancing behind him. “We’ll call it even. One lie for another.”

“I’m still going to hit you,” John grumbled.

Sherlock turned back to look at Mycroft. “No, John, you won’t.”

Mycroft’s lips thinned in distaste. “You saved Irene Adler?”

Sherlock laughed. “Of course. She’s been alive and free all this time. And what’s more, you didn’t know a thing about it. Tell me, brother dear, is sentiment affecting _your_ work? Have you finally found a big, brawny goldfish to your liking?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Who are these other suspects?”

“You.”

Mycroft seemed startled by that, something Sherlock hadn’t seen in quite a while. “Me?”

“Yes. You have means, motive, and opportunity.”

“You really think I would go to that end to spare your life?”

“You’d exhausted all other avenues. Your only other option was to let me die, and we both know how that would have _broken your heart_.” Sherlock stepped forward. “Not to mention what you would have gone through having to deliver the news of a dead son to Mummy.” He studied his brother’s face. “ _Again_.”

The shared another long look. This time, it was Sherlock seeking long-sought answers and Mycroft’s turn to conceal. His older brother didn’t. Instead, his head bowed and his shoulders slumped in apparent defeat. Sherlock stepped back, feeling startled himself at the ramifications of what he had just learned. There were boundaries to Mycroft’s fraternal loyalty and affection, after all. He’d always suspected it, of course, but to have it thus confirmed was … not pleasant. If he were one given to melancholy and its poetic affects, he might have said the truth felt like a dagger in the heart. But he wasn’t and he didn’t. Instead, he reached up to wipe off the sweat that had collected at his brow and ignored the way his hand shook as he did it.

“I see,” he said.

“Sherlock—”

“No.” He didn’t want to hear any explanations from Mycroft. They were as empty now as they had been all those years ago. There was nothing more to say on the matter. He spun on his heel and made his way over to his chair, plopping down into it in a most undignified manner. “I suppose this leaves the final suspect to discuss.”

John piped up from the sofa. “Who is left?”

“Moriarty,” Sherlock supplied.

“Moriarty?” Mycroft and John echoed in unison.

“You just said he was dead,” John said.

“He _is_ dead,” Mycroft said.

“Indeed,” Sherlock granted, “Jim Moriarty is dead. I was talking about the other one.”

“The other one?” Mycroft repeated. “What _other one_?”

“Professor James Moriarty.”


	17. Solving Sherlock

“It’s going to be fine. You’ll see.”

“You keep saying that, but I don’t think you’re right.”

“What do you want me to say? All men are pigs?”

Meena gave a watery smile. “Better,” she warbled before dissolving into tears again.

Molly sighed and handed her friend another tissue. Three hours she’d been here and so far, they’d covered Meena’s abortion, Carter’s finding out about Meena’s abortion, Carter’s and Meena’s subsequent break up, Meena’s new boyfriend Charlie, and now the unpleasant discovery of Charlie’s wife, Susan.

Meena mopped at her face. “I know I should break it off with him, but he swears he loves me, and she’s a total munter.”

“And you’ve been seeing him for how long now?”

“Two weeks,” Meena replied, blowing her nose loudly.

Molly bit her lip, unsure if she should say what she was thinking. But as she knew honestly was the best policy, she forged ahead. “Perhaps it’s not too late to save your heart for someone else? Someone _not_ married?”

Meena froze.

“What?” Molly asked. _Is the idea of dating someone not married so shocking to Meena?_

“How can you—of all people—say that to me?”

Molly frowned. “What do you mean, ‘Me of all people’?”

“You’re in love with that plonker detective, even though you know he won’t ever return your affections, will never appreciate you, and is as mean as a snake. Surely you— _of all people_ —know you don’t get to decide who you fall in love with?”

“I-I-I,” Molly stammered, trying to defend herself, but unable to come up with the right words. Finally, she gave a dismissive wave. “It’s not the same thing.”

“Isn’t it?” Meena asked, reaching over for another tissue. Finding the box empty, she got to her feet, stumbled over to her sink, and splashed cool water over her face.

“I’m not in love with Sherlock.”

Meena’s head popped up, and she stared her down long enough for Molly to know she was being called out on a lie.

Clearing her throat awkwardly, Molly began again. “OK. I’ll admit I have … _feelings_ where Sherlock is concerned, but they’re irrelevant. I’m not seeking a relationship with him—not like that.” _There_ , she thought. _That, at the very least, was the truth._

“Is that why you’re now inexplicably sharing a flat with him?” Meena wiped her face with a napkin of questionable cleanliness before turning to Molly with a frown.

Molly shook her head. “I told you. We’re working a case together. It’s easier if I live with him.”

“Easier for whom? Him? What are you to him exactly? Assistant? Maid? Doormat?”

Molly rolled her eyes. “I’m his friend.”

“Yes, but what _kind_ of friend?”

Molly was about to say “The kind of friend who gets him body parts and lets him play in her lab,” but something in Meena’s tone halted her. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

Meena crossed her slender, well-toned arms over her ample chest. “I’ve never known a male ‘friend’ who didn’t want to get into my knickers.”

“That’s you.”

“No, that’s men. If sex is offered, they’ll take it. They don’t even have to like you, much less feel something more. And with you being in love with him, it’s like you’re serving yourself on a silver platter.”

Molly shook her head. “Sherlock isn’t like that.”

“Is he gay then? That would explain _so_ much.”

“What? No!”

“Are you sure? The papers say he’s something going with that partner of his, Dr. Watson.”

“Neither Sherlock nor John are gay. John is a married to a woman with whom he has a baby, and Sherlock is …” Molly’s voice petered off as she tried to figure out the word to describe him. “He’s … not interested in sex.”

“Sure he isn’t.” Meena smirked. “All men are interested in sex at one time or another. _All_ of them. They spend their whole lives trying to get it out of every woman they meet—or man as the case may be. Not that the detective in question would have to try too hard with those eyes and that dark, curly hair of his. And the coat. And those cheekbones. And his neck. Mmmm.” She returned to the lounge and flopped back on the sofa with a wistful expression. “As long as he didn’t speak, he could have any woman he wanted.” Then, with a swift shake of her head, she said. “Not that I’d have him on a bet after the way he treated me.”

At the other end of the sofa, Molly grabbed a cushion and hugged it to her chest. “I’m sorry about that … again. Sherlock’s only like that when he’s in a hurry. He didn’t mean—”

“Stop making excuses for the man,” Meena interrupted. “Just get away before he hurts you … really hurts you.”

“He wouldn’t hurt me, not on purpose.”

“Purpose or not, get out now. My sofa is available,” She gave a game-show-model wave about the room. “You know you’re always welcome to stay here.”

Molly looked around the place, taking note of the photos of Meena’s various boyfriends—some with heads cut out and some not—scattered about the cramped flat, the moss green carpet in desperate need of a hoovering, the posters taped to the walls of distant lands like Bangkok; California; and the Bahamas, and the second-hand bookshelf loaded down with Meena’s collection of rare nail polishes. In that moment, Molly knew she didn’t fit here anymore than she did at Sherlock’s. _Do I belong anywhere? Have I ever?_ Even the small flat she had before Tom came into her life hadn’t really felt like home. It was more just a place to sleep in between shifts at St. Bart’s.

She shook her head, more forcefully this time. “I told you. I have to stay with him until this case is finished.”

“And what happens when the case is over?”

“I’ll find my own flat. The same as I would have if I had stayed here with you.” Molly smiled, trying to project a happiness she didn’t feel. Remaining on the topic of Sherlock was not an option right now. “Admit it. You like having the place to yourself again.”

“You’re probably right. It was always a little awkward when I would bring someone home and you’d be here.” She shrugged. “Still … Remember that night in Uni we both rushed out the shop to get ice cream in our pyjamas?”

Molly smiled at the memory. “And we thought we looked alright until we got there and saw ourselves reflected in the glass door?”

“Exactly! I can’t believe you let me go out like that. I looked like a right cow!”

Molly giggled. “And you could have told me my shirt had a hole in the front. I’m sure I flashed a few people.”

Meena laughed. “I wish you had. You dress too much like a boy as it is.”

“I do not!”

“You do,” Meena said. “But then again, I suppose you wouldn’t look like yourself if you wore all the getup the rest of us women do. You’re prettier in your own way.”

“Thank you,” Molly said, her heart warming as much as her cheeks.

“Of course, there was that time you dressed up for that costume party. Remember? You wore a dress that night that made you look like my gran. Awful thing. Who were you supposed to be again?”

Molly rolled her eyes. “Marie Curie. She’s a famous scientist.”

“She might have been famous, but it wasn’t for her fashion sense!” Meena laughed.

Her friend’s humor was so infectious, Molly couldn’t help but join in. The laughing continued for a few minutes until both women quietened, staring at each other.

“I’ve really missed you, you know,” Meena said.

“Missed you, too,” Molly replied. “And I really am sorry about what Sherlock said that night. He didn’t mean it. Not really. He’s just…”

“Mental?” Meena supplied. “And don’t lie. He _did_ mean it. You didn’t see his eyes. He’s a machine, that one. No feelings at all. I don’t know how you stand being near him. I mean, he’s gorgeous and all, but so cold and unfeeling. It makes him ugly.”

“He’s not unfeeling, actually. He’s one of the most emotional men I know.”

“Now you’re losing your mind.”

“Really,” Molly said. “It’s true. It’s hard to see at first, but once you get to know him—really get to know him—it’s obvious. He doesn’t experience emotions like the rest of us; he’s flooded with them. All the time. Could you imagine? Feeling everything all of the time? It would drive the sanest man mad as a hatter. What other option would you have but try to ignore your feelings, to dampen them as much as possible? On top of that, he’s smart—smarter than the smartest person you know.”

“You’re the smartest person I know,” Meena said.

“Exactly. He makes me look like a simpleton. Could you imagine always being the smartest person in the room with everyone struggling to catch up all the time? You pick up on things not just minutes faster than they do, days … months … years faster. Your brain works so hard and so fast, burning like the hottest fire. You would need fuel to keep that fire going, stimulation.”

“Stimulation?”

“Yes. Knowledge, challenges, mysteries to solve.”

Meena cocked an eyebrow. “Is this where you’re going to say ‘The brain is muscle. If you don’t use it, you lose it’?”

“No, that’s not it for Sherlock. If he doesn’t use his brain, it’ll destroy him.”

“That’s not true. He’s human, isn’t he? If he stops solving cases, he might get bored, but he won’t die. He’s being overly dramatic, and worse, you’re letting him. That’s why he’s so mean, because you and people like you tell him it’s OK and clean up all his messes. You’re an enabler.”

“No, Meena. For most everyone else, I would agree with you. But Sherlock is different. Can’t you understand? Try to imagine. Put yourself in his shoes. You not only know things before everyone else, you have to constantly prove what you know because they don’t believe you or they haven’t caught on. How patient would you be in that situation? How quickly would it be before you were barking at people the way he does? Sherlock’s had to learn how to cope with both of these things because he can’t turn them off.”

“So that means it’s all right for him to be a git?”

“No, but it does mean we should be more patient with him. After all, he’s learned to channel it all into something else, into something good.”

“What?”

“Solving things; finding answers, helping people by being the best. And he is the best. People bring him mysteries—ones no one can solve—and he figures out the answer. He’s brilliant. The most brilliant man I’ve ever met or will ever meet.”

“But he’s mean and coarse and stomps on people’s feelings.”

Molly shrugged. “He can’t let anything get in the way of him finding the answer. If he worried about people’s feelings, politeness, and the like all the time, he’d never leave his flat.”

“There’s more to life than answering questions and being the best, Molly.”

“Not for Sherlock Holmes. For him, it’s everything. The rest is just …”

“What? The rest is what?” Meena prodded when Molly fell silent.

“Transport.”

“Transport?”

“Yes, it’s just the stuff he has to get through to get to the next mystery.”

The second the words came out of her mouth, something clicked into place in Molly’s brain. She knew everything she said was true—had always known it—but there was something about saying the words aloud that made them more powerful, made her understand them fully. Sherlock would never love her, but not because she wasn’t good enough. It had nothing to do with her at all. He couldn’t love anyone. Not like that. His life was so careful and structured and at times, bordering on the monotonous, not because he wanted it that way, but because it had to be that way. Emotions would drown him.

She remembered back to a time when she’d overheard Mycroft and Sherlock talking.

_“Sentiment is a defect found in the losing side, little brother. You would be better off if you would accept that once and for all.”_

It hadn’t made sense at the time, but it did now. It would obliterate him and everything he had so carefully crafted to keep him sane. To give himself over to love—an emotion that could be dangerous to anyone—would utterly destroy Sherlock Holmes. More to the point, it would destroy all the good he brought about in the world through the mysteries he could solve. It was like asking a god to give up his divinity to live among the mortals or asking Superman to give up his powers to live as a human with Lois Lane. She remembered watching that movie when she was a child. It hadn’t turned out so well.

“I’m sorry. I have to go. I owe him an apology,” Molly suddenly blurted out, jumping to her feet.

“What? What on earth could you have done to him? He’s the one who—”

Molly moved towards the door, her back to Meena. “You don’t understand.”

“You’re right, and I never will. He’s using you. You know that, and what’s worse, you’re letting him.”

Molly stopped, her hand on the door latch. She turned to face her oldest friend. “He says the same thing about you.”

“What?”

“He says I shouldn’t remain friends with you because you’re shallow and you only keep me around to make yourself feel better about your life. I’m your measuring stick. As long as I’m lonelier and worse off than you are, you’re content. The second I have something you want, you seek to take it for yourself.”

All the blood in Meena’s face drained away. “What?”

“He’s wrong, just as you are wrong about him. You’re both my friends. You don’t have to understand why I respect him or even like that I’m friends with him, but you do have to accept it—just as he must accept my relationship with you. You are a good person with a good heart, Meena. I’ve known that since the first day we met, and you have proven it me again and again throughout the course of our friendship. Likewise, Sherlock is a good man who has been a better friend to me than even he would ever care to admit. I’m honored to have you both as friends, but I make the decisions of who stays or goes in my life. No one else. Do you understand?”

Meena couldn’t seem to speak. Her eyes had a far away look to them, but she still managed a feeble nod.

“Good,” Molly said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must return home. I have an apology to deliver. Are you going to be OK?”

Meena nodded again, her watery smile returning.

“Ring me next week then, and we’ll have lunch.”

And with that, Molly headed back to 221B Baker Street and a certain arrogant detective.


	18. The Process Of Deduction

Contrary to popular opinion, Sherlock Holmes was not a man who liked to cause pain.

Yes, he frequently grew frustrated with those around him and said cutting, hurtful things--but only to get them to shut up so he could think. Manners were tedious and irrelevant when there was a game afoot. Why couldn’t anyone understand that? He solved cases which had brought hundreds of murderers to justice, returned millions of pounds of stolen merchandise and artifacts, and saved more lives than he could accurately count. That was for the greater good of humanity—whether the offended humans around him chose to acknowledge that or not.

Yes, his deductions more regularly than not triggered suffering, but that was merely a hazard of his profession and a consequence of the average person’s stupidity and inability to see what was right in front of his or her face. How was that his fault? When aware of the agony his words wrought—which John frequently pointed out was not as often as it should have been—Sherlock made a point to keep his oral suppositions brief. After all, he wasn't a cruel fiend who reveled in torturing someone.

Mycroft, of course, didn’t count as “someone.”

Sherlock took a long, unneeded breath before he deigned to respond to his brother’s query. “Professor James Moriarty.”

“Professor James Moriarty doesn’t exist.” Mycroft’s response was swift. _Too swift._

Sherlock lifted a condescending brow. “You’re certain?”

Still on the sofa, John scratched his head and asked, “Who is Professor James Moriarty?”

Mycroft glared at Sherlock. “Positive.”

“Well, I’m _positive_ you’re wrong,” Sherlock said, savoring every syllable. Now _this_ was the kind of torture he could get behind. It almost made up for his earlier disappointment of having his long-held suspicions concerning Mycroft’s fraternal shortcomings confirmed.

“ _Who_ is Professor James Moriarty?” John repeated.

Mycroft, talking over John, said, “How many times must I say this? He’s nothing more than an alter ego.”

Sherlock sing-songed, “Wr-o-ng!”

“I may as well be the rug here for all the attention anyone’s paying me,” John grumbled. “Who the bloody hell is Professor James Moriarty?”

“Jim Moriarty’s alter ego,” Mycroft answered.

“Jim Moriarty’s _older brother_ ,” Sherlock corrected.

“The professor has never been seen outside of Jim Moriarty. There are no documents proving he exists. In fact, the second Jim Moriarty died, all whispers concerning this supposed Professor Moriarty went with him.” Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Tell me, _little brother_ , in all the time you were deconstructing Moriarty’s criminal web, did you ever come across a solid trail for the professor?”

Sherlock looked away, hating having to repeat himself. This conversation was one he and Mycroft had had on several occasions, ever since Jim had originally made himself known.

“Well?” Mycroft pressed.

“No, but that proves only that the professor is well versed at covering his tracks. Nothing more.”

“I have the world’s best spies, analysts, and informational systems at my fingertips, Sherlock. Do you really think anyone in existence could hide himself so completely from me?”

“ _I_ could.”

“Only because you’ve known me all your life and would, therefore, know how best to avoid me. The professor, even if he exists, is not so fortunate.”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense.” Sherlock knew he sounded petulant, but he didn’t care. This torturing wasn’t proving to be as delightful as he’d anticipated. _Trust Mycroft to take away all my enjoyment. Just like when we were children._

“That doesn’t make it true.” The elder Mr. Holmes placed the umbrella under his arm. “Your skills appear to be slipping, dear Sherlock.” He sighed and gave a rueful smile. “Pity. I suppose I shall have to tell my superiors you’ll need more time.”

“To find him, you mean? No. That would be a colossal waste of my intellect. The professor isn’t interested in being found right now. He knows I know about him. No doubt, after this latest investigation of mine, he also knows I’ve connected him to his little publicity stunt. He clearly has a plan of action in mind. When he wishes to make himself known to me, he will do so.”

“And in the meantime?”

Sherlock shrugged. “We wait.”

Mycroft frowned, letting out a disgruntled noise through his nose.

 _That’s more like it_. “Tell your superiors the country is safe for now. Whatever the professor is after won’t happen until he’s reached out to me. That is more than enough time to figure out how to dismantle his plan. If they threaten to revoke my conditional release, simply explain to them that the professor’s next stunt to hinder my exile will no doubt be larger than the last. He wants to deal with me. It’s best if I stay where I am. Don’t you think?” He walked over to his chair and collapsed into it with an undignified, yet satisfying, plop. “Now make yourself useful and fetch back my pathologist.”

The rueful smile returned. “Have you considered that after the way you’ve treated her, she might not want to come back?”

Fear pooled in Sherlock’s stomach, but he did his best to ignore it. He’d done more than consider that dreadful notion, but it was ridiculous. If Molly Hooper was anything, she was constant in everything she did. It was one of her best qualities—something he’d staked his life on more than once. She was committed to staying with him until he solved this case. She might be upset, but she wouldn’t willingly leave him.

_But what if this time is different? What if you’ve pushed her too far?_

Sherlock smiled brightly in spite of his thoughts, trying to present as many teeth as possible. “I, unlike you, Mycroft, have friends. Molly counts herself among those. Friends, I have discovered, are fiercely loyal—Something I’m sure you would know nothing about.” He turned to John, who was still sitting on the sofa and staring at the pair of them as if he were watching an episode of _Jeremy Kyle_. Sherlock softened his smile. “Care for a spot of tea, _friend_?”

Catching on, John shot to his feet, stared Mycroft down, and declared, “Absolutely!”

“Lovely. Kettle’s in the kitchen. Get to it,” Sherlock replied with a regal wave of his hand. He looked back to Mycroft as John, grumbling curses, marched to the kitchen. Sherlock knew he’d pay for that later, but for now, he kept his gaze rooted to Mycroft. When the sound of water pouring into the kettle reached the lounge, he smirked. “See?”

“I’ll leave you to your … goldfish … then.”

Sherlock didn’t deign to reply as Mycroft took his leave, not bothering to shut the door behind him. Remaining where he was, Sherlock’s attention shot to the kitchen, trying to gauge how big of a fit John was liable to throw. There was already Molly’s feathers to soothe—and God knew how he was going to manage that—but taking on John as well as enough to make him want to leave London permanently. As he heard his former roommate finish up the makings of the tea, Sherlock grabbed a nearby newspaper and proceeded to hide behind it.

When John got close enough to slap his teacup down on the small table adjacent to his chair, Sherlock flinched behind his paper. After all, the last time he’d had to apologize to his friend, he came home with a bloody nose. He waited for John to take his seat, but he didn’t. No, he seemed content to stand there forever. Intent on keeping control of things, Sherlock smoothed out his face, carefully folded the paper as if he had all the time in the world, put it away, and turned his attention to the tea.

“Thank you.”

John didn’t respond. Sherlock took the cup in his hand, noting by its faintly creamy brown color that it had been prepared just the way he preferred. _Perfect._ Settling back in his chair, he glanced up. “Problem?”

Fortunately, the doctor looked irritated, but not violent. “’Thank you’? That’s all I get?”

“I thanked you for the tea,” Sherlock pointed out. “It’s my understanding that is the appropriate way to show appreciation. Did you want a tip as well?”

John shook his head as he took his own tea to his chair. Taking a seat, he gulped down a fair amount before he said, “You’re lucky I like Mycroft less than you.”

Sherlock gave a jaunty grin. “I’m your best friend. Mycroft doesn’t even compare.” He took a long swallow from his cup. The second the tea hit his mouth, so did the taste. _Dear Lord!_ Oh, the horrible, horrible taste. He dropped his cup and spat out the offensive liquid on the floor, clawing at his tongue to rid himself of the obnoxious flavor of items that should never, never be mixed together for consumption.  “Y-y-you put brown sauce in my tea?”

“Yep.” John laughed as he raised his own cup in a mock toast. “I’m _your_ best friend, Sherlock Holmes. The only one you’re ever likely to have. Next time, show some respect or your tea won’t be the only thing I’ll have to doctor.”

Sherlock stomped into the bathroom to clean his teeth. Anything to get rid of the infernal taste which refused to wane. Honestly, he’d never be able to fully appreciate brown sauce again, which was a shame as he enjoyed it on a good bacon butty. He hoped John was happy with himself. Perhaps, he considered, his best friend would hie himself off to his own quarters and leave Sherlock in peace.

Unfortunately, John was still sitting there when he returned. He’d cleaned up the spilled tea and offered up a new cup sitting daintily on its saucer. Sherlock eyed it with one brow raised.

“Just tea this time with milk and sugar only,” John said. “Promise.”

Sherlock snatched it and resumed his seat. He lifted the cup to his mouth, but stopped. Casting a glance at the doctor, he heavily sniffed at his beverage.

John guffawed at this. Realizing how ridiculous he was acting, Sherlock joined him. When the laughing ceased, the two men grew pensive and focused on consuming their drinks. Moreover, Sherlock’s mind was focused on Molly and what was going to happen once she returned.

“Professor James Moriarty.”

That got his attention. “What?”

“Professor Moriarty. Were you winding up Mycroft or does this professor really exist?”

“He exists.”

“Who is he?”

“Moriarty’s older brother.”

John grunted. “Yes, I got that. How is it everyone knows Jim Moriarty, but no one knows the professor?”

“Let me put it this way: Next to the professor, Jim Moriarty is sane, stupid, and nice. No one knows about the professor because he doesn’t want to be known.”

John blanched. “What _does_ he want?”

“I don’t know, but whatever it is has in some way to do with me. He’s been fascinated for quite a while.”

“How do you know that?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Why else would Jim deliberately seek me out time and again, be so engrossed? Yes, the challenge of my intellect is second to none and yes, he was bored and more than a little suicidal. But why seek me out specifically? As I would be the key to undoing his plans, it would be wiser to just avoid me altogether.” He looked down at his tea, watching the way the dregs swirled about as he swished the remaining liquid in his cup.

“Why?”

“Simple. He worshipped his brother; a man who taught him everything he knew, whose approval he never once received, and someone who obviously put me on some type of pedestal of brilliance. As Jim wished to be the one on the pedestal, he was intent on taking out the competition—so to speak.” He finished off his tea and returned the cup to its saucer with a muffled _chink_.

“How do you know all of this?”

“The same way I know about everything else. I collect the clues and use them to reach a logical deduction.” He gripped the arms of his chair, propelling himself to his feet so he could walk around. All this talking was giving him a headache. “Honestly, how long have you known me that you’re unaware of my process?”

Thankfully, John said nothing while Sherlock paced the distance from his chair to the sofa. Seeing the sofa reminded him of Molly, which reminded him of the issues still standing between them. _Why do I care?_ He knew the answer. She was his friend. It is common to care for friends. _But this isn’t like John or Mary or Lestrade. I feel … different. More._ He didn’t like it. These different feelings left his stomach in an uncomfortable knot that promised to never leave. Worse, they proved to be a never ending distraction from those things on which he should be concentrating.

_I should tell her to leave._

Panic immediately set in. Her leaving was the last thing he wanted.

 _What’s wrong with me?_ Perhaps this wasn’t about Molly. Perhaps this was some kind of mental breakdown. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt so … unbalanced. The last time, he’d diagnosed himself and sought a flatmate to cure the affliction. John had proved just the thing to keep him composed yet stimulated and as close to normal as he could ever reasonably expect to be. That the doctor shared an interest in solving mysteries and chasing criminals had been an invaluable—if sometimes exasperating —addition and a way for him to become better focused in his work. Sherlock had never thought to have a partner, but now that he had one, he couldn’t imagine going back to being alone.

 _Alone. I don’t do well alone. Is that why I don’t want Molly to leave?_ It made sense. He’d tried to construct a new routine once John left the flat and bachelorhood behind, but it had been difficult. Boredom seemed to set in far earlier than before, maddening Sherlock and driving him to find greater and more interesting ways to rid himself of it. Dealing with Janine had been a challenge at first. He’d flirted his way into information before, after all, but had never had to carry the role of lovesick sop so far. There was the challenge. Besides, it might be nice to have someone about the flat again.

But, within a day or so, these notions had soured, replaced with a growing agitation and annoyance as Janine flitted about the place leaving her belongings everywhere, rearranging his kitchen cupboards, wearing his day-old shirts— _Why do women do that?_ —and sleeping in his bed. Worst of all, his research had fallen by the wayside as she’d expressed a keen dislike of body parts in her presence and she had little to no understanding or appreciation of personal space. He had to be on constant alert, never knowing when he would be accosted or molested. Those last few days before he’d broken into Magnussen’s office, he’d taken to staying out most evenings to avoid her completely— _Not that it stopped her from sleeping over._

A memory of the drug den in which John had found him filtered in. Some small part of him could admit the heroin that day hadn’t just been about the case. It had been about tediousness and missing John and a minor insecurity as to whether or not he was still susceptible to the weakness of that particular vice. As much as his experience in the drug den had indeed helped with the Magnussen case, Sherlock knew he could never do that again. He abhorred being controlled by anything, and drugs—if one took them long enough—controlled everything. Dependency. That’s what it was. Worse still, from the looks on both John’s and Molly’s faces that day, there would only be so many second chances they gave him. He’d been secretly thrilled to have Molly strike him and John yell at him. The actions were undeniable proof they still cared.

And as far as what happened on the plane the day of his initial exile … Well, it was ... It was …

 _Dependency. Caring. Sentiment._ Was his dependency on Molly’s and John’s affections just as bad as the heroin? Mycroft often said sentiment was a defect. Sherlock had always assumed that meant in terms of his work, but what if that wasn’t all? What if it meant dependency as well?

 _That’s it_ , he decided. _Molly has to go. Immediately._

“So when does Molly leave?”

That broke through Sherlock’s reverie. He whirled on John. “Pardon?”

“If Jim Moriarty is truly dead and it’s only the professor who is out there, it stands to reason Molly shouldn’t have to stay with you any longer. She can go back to her normal life.”

“Go back?” Sherlock repeated. “ _Normal_?”

“Yes, Sherlock. Even you have to admit that living with you is anything but normal.”

Mortification threatened, but the consulting detective kept it at bay. “Well, you’re no prize to live with either.” He resumed pacing.

“My point is that she isn’t in danger any longer.”

“Wrong!”

John frowned. “How so?”

“As the professor is ten times the criminal mastermind his brother was, it stands to reason that he’d be as aware of the information concerning my life as well as those of importance to me as Jim Moriarty was—if not more so.”

“But if she is here, doesn’t that put her in greater danger? As you said to Mycroft, the professor will seek you out when he is ready.”

“I didn’t say he would show up in my lounge unannounced.”

“You think he’ll make an appointment first?”

“I think he’ll make his presence known without showing his face. He’s gone to a lot of trouble to keep it hidden this long. There’s a reason for that. This reason will be what keeps him from coming here. Therefore, there isn’t a place in all of London where Molly would be safer.”

“The professor doesn’t have to come here himself. He could send people, you know.”

“He could also send people to any flat Molly would get. How will she be any safer there?” Sherlock turned on heel to stare at his friend.

John’s silence indicated Sherlock had won the argument. Sherlock smiled, happy at this conclusion. However, as other details started making themselves known, he realized he might be the one wrong. First, there was John’s eyes, which were widened into what could only be surprise. That by itself proved nothing as the doctor could also be surprised he’d so thoroughly lost the debate. But when one added John’s growing paleness as well as the fact that he couldn’t seem to stop staring over Sherlock’s shoulder towards the door, there was only one deduction to be had.

Someone was standing behind him, someone John was mortified to have had overheard them.

One sniff was all it took to identify who it was. The intoxicating bouquet of lavender mixed with sandalwood and a hint of citrus barely masking the odor of formaldehyde was unmistakable. His heart began racing in his chest. Yes, he knew who it was alright.

_Molly._


	19. The Other Woman

Molly Hooper was a short, frail female. Her voice was unsure and weak, her brown eyes were as timid as a milk cow, and her clothing was something akin to what a primary school child would choose to wear. On her best day, she could hardly harm a fly.

Yet, the second he spotted the pathologist occupying his doorway, Sherlock Holmes felt like a bug pinned to a corkboard.

A torrent of emotions washed over him. The wave was so steep and heavy he was suffocated. Relief, amazement, happiness, fear, anger, and confusion battled for dominance. He watched her, not daring to move or speak. What was she thinking? Was she still angry over this morning? What was she thinking now? How much had she overheard? Would she want to leave? Should he want her to leave? What was she thinking _now_? Why did the thought of her leaving always leave him with a lurch of panic? Why was he rethinking this? Why couldn’t he seem to make a decision and stick to it where she was concerned?

_Why? Why? Why?_

“Well,” John said, scrambling to his feet. “I’ll just leave you to it.” He scooped up his belongings and made for the door like demon dogs from Hell were nipping at his heels.

 _Coward._ Sherlock saw his friend go, trying to ignore the manic instinct that made him want to follow. _I have this. I can handle it. I can always handle Molly. Her malleability in my hands is one of the best things about her._ These thoughts brought the mental image of his hands roving over her skin.

_Where the hell did that come from?_

He fought to regain control of himself. _I’ve already decided what to do. Molly should leave. No, Molly_ must _leave._ It didn’t matter what Molly said now or the fact that he’d only moments before been arguing for her to stay. She had to go. Anywhere but here. He didn’t know where all these strange feelings were coming from or what they meant, but he knew for sure the root cause of them beginning.

 _Molly._ With every hour she remained, he danced closer and closer to the edge of something acutely dangerous. _No_ , he hastily affirmed. _I must not lose my sanity. She must go._

“Molly, I want—”

“Sherlock, I need—”

They both stopped as soon as they’d begun. Molly gave him a wry smile, the one she used when she was embarrassed. A place in his chest softened inexplicably at that. _What does she have to be ashamed about_? There was a long silence as each waited for the other to speak.

Finally, when Sherlock could stand it no longer, he said, “What do you _need_?”

“What do you _want_?” Molly said at the same time.

The silence engulfed them again until Molly took two steps into the room. Reflexively, Sherlock backed up. She frowned at him in concern.

Sherlock looked away, chagrined. In a feeble attempt to cover it, he dashed to his chair and claimed it, knowing she would take her customary seat on the sofa, a respectable and calm-inducing distance away.

In this moment, he’d never been happier about her bizarre predilection to avoid the chair she termed as “John’s.”

Molly didn’t disappoint. She sat on the sofa, her brown eyes never leaving him. They were tempered with concern, as if she were worried he might do himself harm. Sherlock racked his brain, trying to come up with a plausible explanation as to why this might be as well as a plan on how to get her out of here without destroying their friendship.

He closed his eyes, attempting to concentrate. Yes, Molly was important. Her friendship was invaluable. Not only for his continued access to the morgue as well as her lab, but also because she’d proven herself to be the one he talked to when he couldn’t talk to John. Sometimes, Molly was the person he could talk to even if he _could_ talk to John. She had a way of accepting things John could not.

_She’s my friend. That won’t going away, no matter where Molly resides._

His concentration strengthened. Sherlock took a deep breath. That brought with it the scent of her. No other woman could ever smell like her. No perfume ever produced could hope to mimic the soothing fusion of fragrances that was Molly Hooper. The complex floral and citrus undertones of washing up soap and hand lotion spiced with harsh chemicals from the lab where she spent so much time, all mixed together with a dollop of this warm, earthy element that was distinctively her—made stronger today by her hair and clothing being dampened by the rain. The scent never failed to comfort him, even when he didn’t particularly want to be comforted. _Odd._

He snapped his eyes open to find her still watching him. His mouth felt inexplicably parched. He licked at his lips, trying to alleviate the problem, and coughed in a feeble attempt to maintain his usual air of detachment. Her continued silence and staring— _ogling really_ —made this difficult to accomplish.

“Are you going to say anything?” he demanded.

She folded her hands in her lap, looking as prim as a schoolteacher. “Perhaps it would be best if you went first. You seemed to be in a hurry to tell me something before.”

He paused, considering this a nanosecond before he exclaimed, “I suppose you want an apology for this morning.”

“No,” she replied.

“No?”

“No.”

Surely there was more of an explanation than that. He stared at her in expectation. She mutely stared back. He raised an eyebrow in intimidation. Her mouth quirked as though she found his actions to be more charming than daunting. He exhaled in frustration.

Females, as a rule, were an enigma to him. He’d always considered them to be a separate species from males. Men, he understood. Men made sense. Simple creatures ruled by finite policies. Females were peculiar, unpredictable, and dangerous. Ruled by sentiment, they were, as a result, fickle, calculating, lacking in common sense, and wholly untrustworthy. All reasons Sherlock had long eschewed them.

 _The_ Woman had more than substantiated his long-held theory. She’d used every weapon in her sexual arsenal in her quest to “find out what he liked.” He knew what that meant, more so than even Mycroft or John did. Finding what he liked meant she could possess him, control him. He’d even been strangely tempted to let her try, to see if he could withstand her considerable prowess. She’d been so stimulating, such a test to his intellect and skills. She kept him constantly on his toes, promising an engaging world where the threat of boredom was a distant memory. She was everything he’d ever suspected of women and so much more, all wrapped in an intriguing package begging to be opened.

That she’d bested him had merely whetted his appetite for more. The biggest challenge of all loomed between them every time they met: Could he withstand her manipulations long enough to outwit her, strip her bare of her shroud of lies and artifice to find the real woman underneath? Was there even a real woman underneath anymore or merely more lies?

Yes, it had been a rare and enticing contest. One he’d wisely decided to avoid. After all, she had managed to infiltrate his carefully constructed walls and awaken something inside him he didn’t like. He’d been beguiled, but like the famed Odysseus rejecting the lotus eaters for fear of losing his wits, Sherlock had kept her at bay. In the end, The Woman had proven herself to be as treacherous and disloyal as the rest of her sex. Sherlock had outwitted her, the irony not lost on him that it was sentiment—something she’d been trying to use to bring about _his_ downfall—that had been her undoing.

He’d saved her life, but only because he couldn’t stand to see someone with her resourcefulness and acumen destroyed. Besides, he’d wanted to see if he was up to the challenge of doing it without Mycroft finding out. That night, The Woman had attempted to repay his kindness by offering her bed one last time. But he’d declined before lust could induce him to be foolish.

Yes, it was possible for him to feel sexual desire. He knew John and all the rest would be shocked to know that, but it was true. He was a human, wasn’t he? But observing the many, many times desire had brought about the downfall of his species was enough to compel him to bury those feelings deep. It had worked amazingly well. It wasn’t until The Woman that something he’d considered nearly dead had been resurrected. This time, however, it refused to remain buried. He hated it. It was like a once-locked door that now refused to close, an albatross around his neck.

Thankfully, that albatross was out of his life and, the last time he checked, residing in America—some place called New Jersey. But as much as she was out of his life, The Woman was never completely out of his mind. Sometimes he thought of her because she was a real reminder of female faithlessness and how he was more susceptible to them than he’d once believed himself to be. More often than that, he thought of her because she was a woman who’d shown herself to be his equal—something he’d never believed possible. This, of course, often begged the question: If Irene Adler was his equal and could be so fallible as to allow sentiment to rule her better judgment as well as selfish and ignorant to the idea that the needs of the common good should sometimes override one’s own, what did that make him?

_A question best left unanswered._

Moreover, as much as The Woman had stimulated him on many levels, she didn’t truly understand him. No one really did—except possibly John and sometimes Mycroft—but there was something about Irene’s inability to fully grasp the building blocks that created him that had left a bitter taste in his mouth and made his respect for her wane ever so slightly.

_Perhaps, that is the true reason you were able to walk away from her that night._

“Sherlock?”

Breaking from his reverie, he found Molly. He said nothing, merely looked at her. Molly was different from The Woman. She always had been. Unlike the rest of her gender, she was honest, loyal, and forthright, with a heart as meek as a kitten. On more than one occasion, he’d almost forgotten she was female. He liked it better then. Things were more comfortable somehow and less … awkward. In fact, it was the moments when Molly made it blatantly impossible for him to forget she was a woman that he found himself almost hating her.

The memory of that Christmas party long ago and the terrible things he said to her made him close his eyes. If he mentally put the two females side by side, it was a laughable combination. There was simply no way to compare them. If one was a potent wine of extraordinary vintage, the other was milk. If The Woman was Tolstoy, The Pathologist was that absurd zombie book. If Irene was a terrifying thunderstorm whipping through the night, Molly was an ordinary, overcast day.

But the sharp, defined “No” Molly had uttered moments ago had him rethinking these deductions. Then again, ever since she’d declared she didn’t count to him in the lab on an evening so long ago, everything he’d ever thought about Molly Hooper had changed. At first, he’d thought it was because he’d missed something important about her character—He always missed something. But the longer he got to know her, the more he wasn’t sure about that. Molly was always Molly. He was beginning to suspect that it wasn’t Molly that had changed, merely his ability to discern her.

“Sherlock, are you all right?”

He blinked, almost surprised to find her there. “Pardon?”

“You’ve been quiet for a long time. Do you mind if I have a go at talking now?”

His cheeks heated in humiliation. This confused him. He routinely lost himself in thought in the middle of conversations, but this was the first time that trait had ever been cause for embarrassment.

“Y-y-yes. I mean, no,” he said, fisting his hands in his lap. “Go ahead.”

“I want to apologize.”

“What?”

He stared at her, expecting her to duck her head or look away as she always did. She kept his gaze as she had before, adding a smile as if to comfort him.

 That was unnerving. Mostly because it was working. He _did_ feel comforted.

“I want to apologize,” she repeated.

“For what?” he skimmed through the memory of this morning, trying to figure out what she might have done which could be perceived to cause offense, but came back empty.

“I know you don’t love me, that you’ll never love me—”

“Molly—” He had no idea where she was going with this. He only knew the panic flooding his stomach made him intervene. It took all he had to remain seated.

She held up a hand to stop his speech. “Let me finish.”

He narrowed his gaze, but gave her a nod to continue. The panic seemed to have doubled in the last second, but he forced himself to settle back against his chair as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

She took a deep breath. Released it. “I understand now.”

“You understand what?”

“You.”

Inexplicably, with every word she uttered, the panic within him receded in favor of confusion, excitement, and a bizarre bit of anticipation. No one fully understood him. It was something he had accepted a long time ago. _What does she mean? How can she—?_

“I think I’ve somehow always known this about you, but it wasn’t until I was explaining it to someone else that I realized the truth of it.”

“The truth of what?”

“I thought that you wouldn’t love me because I wasn’t good enough, pretty enough, or smart enough. I mean, I’m not Janine or Irene Adler.”

 “Molly—”

The halting hand rose again. “I’m important. You trust me. I count. I know all that. I accept it.” She looked down at her clenched hands. “In fact, it makes me proud because I know how few people you feel that way about.” She inhaled, held the breath, and then blew it out. “I told myself your friendship was enough, that I’d make my peace with the feelings I have for you.”

Her eyes raised, hitting him square on until he felt again like a bug pinned to a corkboard.

“But that isn’t what I’ve been doing. I’ve been punishing you for not loving me and for not living up to what I wanted you to be. That’s not fair. You are who you are, and there’s nothing wrong with that. I’m sorry. I hope you’ll forgive me. My only excuse is that I didn’t realize until today. Do you know what else I realized?”

His mouth felt so dry, he couldn’t speak. So, Sherlock shook his head.

“It’s not that you won’t love me; it’s that you can’t.”

“What?” he squawked.

“It’s not about _me_ at all. You can’t love anyone—not like that.”

“I can’t?”

"No. It would be your downfall. It would ruin you. You even tried to have a romantic relationship with that Janine woman and look how badly it turned out. All those emotions already running rampant in that mind of yours couldn't handle being in love, too. Plus, it would take you away from the one thing you were put on this earth to do: Solve the mysteries no one else could ever hope to solve. You save lives, Sherlock. You bring hope to the hopeless and answers to those filled with questions. Falling in love is the stuff of mortals; your work is the stuff of gods." She smiled at him.

“So,” she continued, getting to her feet, “I owe you an apology. I’m sorry for not having figured this all out sooner. I’m afraid I’ll never catch on to things quite as fast as you. I’m sorry for having forced myself on you when it was clear you didn’t want me. You’ve had the patience of saint.”

“You never forced yourself—”

“I did. Again and again. I asked you out even though I knew you weren’t interested. I tried to make you jealous by dating a work colleague—only to end up bringing a criminal mastermind into your presence. I put you in uncomfortable situations like the time I dressed up like a tart and came to your Christmas party hoping you would notice me. I forced you to let me live here. I told you it was because I wanted to help you take down Jim and because I didn’t want to give up living my life. But the truth was I wanted you and I’d hoped that by being so close to you day after day, you’d be forced to get to know the real me and through that, you might start to want me back.”

He’d never been so confused in his life. “I _do_ know the real you.” _I like the real you._ He held that last part back, unsure what it would mean to her or to him or to this situation.

A tear trickled down her cheek and she looked away, as if she couldn’t bear the sight of him for one second longer. “I know.” _And it didn’t make one bit of difference._

She didn’t say it, but he heard her just the same. Something switched on in his brain, something he didn’t fully understand yet. But it was good, like being able to see after years of believing himself to be blind.

 “I guess what I’m trying to say—very inarticulately,” she said with a small laugh that didn’t hold an ounce of mirth, “is I understand you now. You’re not heartless. You are one of the most caring people I know. You care about the greater good, and that’s how it should be. You see the big picture while the rest of us get mired in the details. Yes, you’re crass at times and you have a propensity for rushing headlong into disaster without thinking about the feelings of those who might worry about you, but if you didn’t rush in, someone would get hurt, lives would be destroyed. You do the work of angels, Sherlock Holmes, and, as much as I might wish otherwise, I’ll never be an angel.”

That reminded him of his rooftop discussion with Moriarty. The panic that had been building within him rose to dangerous levels. Sherlock had to stop her talking. He stepped towards her, trying to close the distance before she finished this. “Molly—”

She held up a hand again. This didn’t make him stop this time. Her next sentence, however, did.

“I’m in love with you.”

He felt like someone had shot him in the chest again. Sherlock staggered back. He’d known this before, of course. But to have her say it.

Now.

Aloud.

To his face.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to do, how he could stop what instinct told him must come next.

“Part of me will always love you, Sherlock. But I think it’s best for everyone if from now on I try very hard not to anymore.”

Sherlock’s heart, which had been beating so rapidly, faltered. The knot that had claimed residence these last few weeks in his stomach all this time grew painfully tight.

“And that starts with me moving out.”

“What?”

“You were right. I don’t belong here. I’m only getting in the way. I’m distracting you from finding Jim Moriarty. I should have gone with Mycroft when you first asked me to. You were only thinking of my safety. But I wanted to show you I could be more than you thought I was.” She shook her head, more tears falling. “I won’t get in your way anymore. I’ll call Mycroft. I’ll go with him. The time away will allow me to—”

“Shut up.” He closed the space between them, taking her by the shoulders.

She frowned up at him in confusion. Her wet cheeks and the unshed tears in her eyes somehow made her beautiful. He’d never thought Molly to be beautiful, but now he couldn’t manage to think of any other word that could better describe her. She was beautiful. He didn’t stop to ponder the why of it or the reasons behind what he was doing or the ramifications of everything. Molly was leaving his life for good, and he was going to do whatever it took to stop her.

“Sherlock, I don’t understand—”

“Neither do I,” he said.

Then, before another word could be uttered, Sherlock Holmes kissed Molly Hooper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I can actually hear the screaming even as I am writing this. Weird. LOL.


	20. There's The Rub

Kissing Sherlock was an exercise in disappointment and frustration. Being kissed by Sherlock, however, was an explosion of passion and manic energy. So manic in fact, that it didn’t seem like he was simply kissing her, he was desperately consuming her like a roaring blaze on dry kindling. It was all Molly could do to hang on.

It was also extremely difficult to remember all the reasons this was a bad idea.

He was so tall, but that didn’t stop him from grasping her face with both hands and leaning into her as he kissed her. His lips surged hard against hers, once, twice. She returned the favor. How could she not? Then, he angled his head, opened his mouth, and swooped in and the kiss transformed into something so hot, so vehement, so blistering that she forgot who she was for a moment.

The next thing she was aware of was the sound of a door slamming and the feel of her back bring shoved against a hard surface. Since Sherlock’s body was still pressed against her front, she didn’t mind. Her hands had snaked their way up his chest—So _lovely_ —past his shoulders— _Who knew they were so wide?_ —around his neck— _I could spend a month there just exploring_ —and into the mass of curls clustered at the nape of his neck— _Oh dear Jesus_.

She pulled him in, fervently kissing him back. It was madness. All of it. Such sweet madness that she never wanted it to end. But it would end. All too soon. And the second it did, Molly knew there would be so much to ask, so many answers she didn’t want to deal with. All this and more nagged at the back of her mind, but they were easily pushed aside when he wrapped his arms around her waist, jerking her closer to him even as his mouth continued to take hers.

If she were one to believe in past lives, she could have easily believed Sherlock to have once been a pirate. He certainly kissed like one. He plundered, pillaged, and looted her mouth until she felt like she had nothing else left. Still, he demanded more, as if he could never get enough. Never one to deny him, Molly gave him more and more and more until the thoughts and worries and questions overtook even the desperate fury of his kiss.

She finally broke away from him, tilting her head back against the wood of the door even as her lungs fought to refill themselves. Sherlock inclined forward automatically, intent on recapturing her lips, but she moved her head to the side. His face fell into the crook of her shoulder, seemingly exhausted.

He panted, much the same as she was. Molly realized her hand was still lost in his hair, but she couldn’t find the will to remove it. Instead, she held him to her, petting the back of his neck in soothing strokes like he was a child in need of comfort. He shuddered against her. Molly used her free hand to hold him closer.

They stayed that way for the longest time. At last, when their breathing quieted and they both appeared to have come back to themselves, Sherlock pulled back. She hated how much the simple act of him doing that hurt her, but she’d known it was coming. It had to come. She let him go, but he didn’t go far, no more than a few steps away.

His cheeks were ruddy and his hair was delightfully tousled, like he’d spent time in a wind tunnel. His lips were swollen and the pupils of his eyes were so dilated that she would have thought him under the influence of drugs if she hadn’t known better. In fact, he looked like he’d been thoroughly debauched. Molly couldn’t help the little smile that came to her at that thought. _I did that. Me. Little Molly Hooper._ She wanted to kiss him again, to tear the clothes from his body and debauch him fully.

But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t. Sherlock Holmes was a man who had a motive for every action. There was a reason he had kissed her, a reason she was afraid to uncover. Still, as fearful as she was, she had to know—even if it would break what was left of her heart.

“Why?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

He shook his head with the aplomb of a boy caught with a toy that wasn’t his.

“Sherlock—”

“I don’t want you to leave.”

“So you kissed me?”

He gave a short, decisive nod.

Molly’s shoulders sagged in defeat. Just as she’d feared. “I had hoped we were past this.”

“Past what?”

“You trying to manipulate me by using my feelings for you against me.”

He frowned. “That’s not what I was doing.”

“Isn’t it? Sherlock, you know I’m in love with you. I’m trying to do the right thing here. I’m trying to set you free of the troublesome burden of dealing with me and you—”

“You’re no burden, Molly. You’ve never been a burden to me. If anything, you’ve always been a help. More help than you can ever fully comprehend.”

His tone was like a caress, one she wanted to melt into. She stiffened, hating how susceptible she was to him. “If this is about access to the lab or the morgue, I can talk to Mike Stamford. Whether I’m there or not, they will let you in.”

Surprise infused his features. “I don’t care about that.”

“Then why did you kiss me?”

He looked away, as if racking his brain for the answer. Finally, he glanced back and said, “You were leaving, and I … had to stop you.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

He shrugged sheepishly. “I know.”

An insane thought popped in her mind. Insane, true, but it did explain a lot of things. “Are you in love with me? Is that why you didn’t want me to leave?”

“No.” His answer was swift and sure.

Molly closed her eyes, rolling her head to the side because his admission hurt more than it should have considering everything she knew about him. Hadn’t she just got through explaining why he couldn’t love anyone? _Why would you think that had changed in the last three seconds?_

“I would very much like to have sex with you, though.”

Her eyes popped open at that. Her brain shorted out until she couldn’t have produced a response if she wanted to.

“Yes,” he said. “Shocked me as well. It also complicates things in a way I don’t like.” He shrugged again. “Doesn’t make it any less true, though.”

Silence swallowed up everything between them for a long time. Molly spent the time trying to absorb what he’d said. It was too much. At last, Sherlock straightened to every inch of his impressive height, tucking his hands behind his back as he paced in front of her. “I have a proposal, Molly.”

She blinked. That was all she was capable of.

He made it to one end of the room, flipped about, and marched towards the other.

“You weren’t wrong about me, but you weren’t altogether right either. I don’t love, not like that. It would be a dangerous proposition for me—not to mention the unfortunate soul I elected to love.”

“How was I wrong?”

“You said I can’t love. That implies I am incapable of the feeling. That isn’t true. I’m quite capable of it—much to Mycroft’s eternal dismay.”

“I don’t understand.”

He ceased pacing. “When I was a young boy home from school for the summer, I had a dog I named Redbeard. He just appeared one day, ragged and in need of a home. Mycroft took an instant dislike to him since his fur was matted and it looked like he hadn’t had a good meal in a long while. In any case, it was the first time I’d shown an interest in something a normal child might like, so my mother insisted on letting me keep him.” He shook his head. “Mummy was always worrying about her boys not fitting in with the other children.

“In any case, I spent a wondrous summer with Redbeard. He was my constant companion, the one I could confide in without worry of ridicule or judgment. And he returned the love I gave him tenfold.”

“Then what?”

“Then, when it was time to return to school, I missed him terribly. I’d never been one for writing letters home to my parents. But when I had Redbeard, it was different. I wrote all the time, wondering how he was, begging for news and pictures. It went on like that for a few years. Mycroft said I was quite obsessed.” Sherlock scoffed. “But what did he know about it? How could he possibly understand?”

Molly stayed quiet, feeling sadness for the boy Sherlock who had to deal with so much.

“One year after the school term had ended, I rushed home to see Redbeard, but he wasn’t there.”

“Did he run away?”

“No, I was told he went to live on a farm. He’d been getting on in age. My father said that frolicking on rolling hills and chasing chickens was the perfect way for Redbeard to spend the last years of his life. I was, of course, upset. But as my father convinced me this was best for Redbeard, how could I argue?”

His mouth twisted into a scornful sneer. “A day went by before Mycroft told me the truth. He actually found the situation humorous, that I’d bought the whole story, that I’d allowed sound logic to be overridden by sentiment.”

Molly felt tears well in her eyes. She’d never particularly liked or disliked Mycroft. Honestly, she’d always been a trifle intimidated by him. She long ago reasoned that was an air the elder Mr. Holmes purposefully cultivated to keep people at bay. Now, she didn’t care. She hated him. Intimidating or not, if he were here, she would have told him off.

“Redbeard had been old when he showed up on our doorstep. As time went by, his health deteriorated. Getting around was painful for him. Blinded by my feelings for him, I didn’t see it.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “Honestly, it wouldn’t have mattered if I had. I would have still wanted him alive. I would have kept him to the very end even if I had to carry him everywhere myself. My parents knew that. So, they waited until I went back to school after Christmas holidays and had him put to sleep.”

The betrayals of his family were varied and many. The pain of the past was still evident. Molly could see all of that plainly on Sherlock’s face for a moment before everything disappeared, replaced by his usual mask of detachment.

“It was a good lesson for me; one I’ve never forgotten.”

“Is that why Mycroft said sentiment was a defect found in the losing side?”

“How did you—”

“I overheard you both talking one time at the morgue.”

“Yes,” he said. “Emotion gets in the way of things. Love is the worst offender when it comes to this. Love is blind and all that.” He resumed his pacing. “In my line of work, I can’t afford to be blind. As you say, I see what others cannot.” He stopped to look at her. “But I am human, Molly. More human sometimes than I would like to admit. I have emotions—sometimes too many to deal with. You were right about that. I decided long ago to suppress and compartmentalize them and on the whole, I have been successful in this endeavor. It makes me a better detective.”

“It also makes you alone.”

He sighed, a look of regret on his face. “Ah, there’s the rub.” He reached up, wiping his large hand over his face. “I’m not Mycroft. I don’t do well on my own. It’s why I got John.”

Molly bit back a smile. The way he talked, it was like he’d pick John up at the shops like a pint of milk. _Only Sherlock Holmes._

“Strangely enough, John helped me become more focused and overall, a better detective. Likewise, I provided him a service by allowing him to take part in my adventures. It was an arrangement that worked well for both of us. But then …” He trailed off, a frown marring his handsome features.

“You had to leave London for two years because of Jim?”

He looked startled. “No, then John got married.”

Molly was confused. Hadn’t he been lonely during those two years? He must have. But from the way he was talking, it seemed as though Sherlock thought John deciding to move ahead with his life was the bigger sin.

He resumed pacing. “In any case, he moved in with Mary and I once again found myself alone.”

“And so you started dating Janine to deal with your loneliness.”

He waved his hand absentmindedly. “No, of course not. That was for a case.”

“What?”

“Janine was Charles Augustus Magnussen’s personal assistant. Dating her was the easiest way to get to him.”

“I don’t understand.”

He sighed again. “Sit down. I’ll explain.”

And once she resumed her position on the sofa, he did, detailing everything from how he’d been approached by a high profile client who was being blackmailed by Magnussen to Sherlock shooting the newspaper magnet dead at his own home, his taking the mission work from his brother, and his last-minute change of direction once Jim popped back up. She noticed that he tread lightly over certain sections—especially the part where he’d been shot breaking into Magnussen’s office—not mentioning who had actually done the shooting. _He’s not lying._ She was sure of it. But he wasn’t telling her the entire truth either. _Why? To protect someone? Who?_

When he was done recounting, Sherlock halted. “Now do you understand?”

Molly’s mind swam with this infusion of knowledge. On one hand, it explained so much. On the other, it left her with more questions. She’d been told a few things by John and Mary, of course, but all of these new details … Still, one thing was certain.

“What I understand is that, as much as I find you wooing a woman strictly for a case to be morally repugnant, I stand by my initial assessment that you dated Janine due to loneliness.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “I killed a man for a case. Is it so farfetched that I might romantically ensnare a woman for the same cause? I am, as you well know, guilty of using your feelings for me to manipulate you into giving me body parts and unfettered access to St. Bart’s. I have done so from the very beginning of our acquaintance.”

“Not possible. You weren’t even aware I had real feelings for you until that mortifying Christmas party. At best, you picked up on my attraction to you. Then, you used that to get what you wanted. It wasn’t about real feelings. What you did to Janine is far worse and far more involved.”

“Is it?”

“You invited her into your life, into your flat.”

“The point is I did it for the case.”

“And to ease your loneliness. But it didn’t work, did it?”

He blinked, looking like a boy caught in his first lie.

“You killed Magnussen because it was the only thing you could do to stop him. He was a plague that needed to be eradicated.”

A peculiar lightness transformed Sherlock’s expression, as if he were impressed by her figuring that out. She ignored this as she continued, “But you dated Janine because you genuinely liked her and were lonely. You forget, Sherlock, I saw you two at John’s wedding. You hit it off.”

His head cocked sideways. “Why were you watching us? Jealous?”

“Yes.” There was no sense lying. Not to Sherlock. Not now.

“But you were with Tom. As I remember it, you couldn’t keep your mouth off him all day and most of the evening.”

“Why were you watching us?” she countered, unable to help herself. “Jealous?”

He frowned disapprovingly at her. “We’ve already been over that.”

She shrugged. “My point is that I’m not nearly as gifted as you, and I can come up with five other ways off the top of my head for you to get close to Magnussen without involving Janine.” She crossed her arms of her chest and leaned back against the sofa. “I am, therefore, forced to deduce that you went out with Janine because you were lonely. I further deduce that when you realized your relationship with Janine wasn’t doing a thing to combat your loneliness, you decided to try heroin again.”

Molly would have laughed at how flustered he suddenly was if she hadn’t been so angry. _Really? Taking drugs due to loneliness? How stupid could one genius be?_ She wanted to slap him all over again.

He opened his mouth to argue, but she beat him to the punch. “I don’t want to debate your drug use yet another time. All you need to know about that is I won’t tolerate it. Do it and I’ll leave and never speak to you again—no matter what ruse you might employ to try to make me stay. Got it?”

Sherlock nodded, watching her intently.

“Good,” she said.

There was a pregnant pause between them before he cleared his throat and said, “I will admit I was fond of Janine. She had her own brand of humor that was, at times, entertaining and when she wasn’t being completely self-absorbed, using me as a chair, leaving her underclothing lying around the flat, or unceremoniously rearranging my cupboards, she did have intriguing ideas about the world. I will also admit I chose her not only because she was Magnussen’s assistant, but also because I thought I would be able to tolerate her company for the interim of the case. I will even admit I thought it was an amusing turn that she put all that rubbish about me in the papers. She made some money and is happily ensconced in a cottage in Sussex Downs. I wish her well, but have no further interest in her. I would even say I more than got my comeuppance for any damage I might have done to her. Is that enough of a compromise for you?”

Molly nodded.

“Good,” he said, his hands swinging back behind him. “Then I believe it’s time we discussed another compromise.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The proposal I mentioned earlier. Have you forgotten already?”

Molly inhaled, feeling prepared for anything. This was Sherlock. At this point, nothing he could say would surprise her. “No, I remember. What about it?”

“How would you feel about being in a relationship with me?”

 _Nope_ , Molly thought. _I was wrong._


	21. Shock And Ahh

There comes a time when a body simply cannot absorb any more shock. Then, it just hits and falls away like rain off a mac. This is where Molly found herself. She wondered idly if it was an indication that she was going mad. How else could one rationalize the fact that Sherlock Holmes, the man who didn’t love or date unless there was a case involved, had just asked her to be his girlfriend?

 _Yep_ , she thought. _No doubts._ _I’m losing it._

“You have questions. Allow me to expound,” Sherlock said, as if he’d heard her.

Mutely, Molly remained seated on the sofa. _Oh, this should be good._

Sherlock resumed his pacing like a professor giving a lecture. “We each have things the other desires. I want a live-in companion who understands the importance of my work, accepts my various eccentricities, and who doesn’t mind being a sounding board from time to time. You want a life with the man you love. A relationship between us is the most rational conclusion, a modest transaction that should prove mutually beneficial to both parties.”

“You’re not serious.”

He had the audacity to look affronted. “Of course I am.”

“It’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It makes sense.”

“How so? You don’t love me, Sherlock. In fact, you just got through explaining in great detail how you’ll never be in love with anyone. You might get the companion you want with this foolish arrangement, but how am I getting anything I want?”

In the blink of an eye, Sherlock knelt down in front of her. Reaching out, his large hands framed her face. He pulled her closer, staring deeply into her eyes. His low-pitched tone was as smooth as velvet. “You want me, don’t you?”

Her heart raced. She fought to keep her breath. Her mind became fuzzy and unfocused by his close proximity and the intensity of his concentration on her. His hands were so warm against her cheeks. Molly wanted to sink into that warmth and never come out again.

“Don’t you?” he tenderly prompted.

There were silver flecks in his eyes. She’d never noticed them before. _So beautiful. Why does everything about him have to be so achingly beautiful_?

“Don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You can have me.” He leaned in as if to kiss her, his voice a bare whisper of sultry air against her lips. “Say yes, Molly.”

“Y-y-y …”

“Say it _now_.”

She never could say for sure what triggered it. Maybe it was the slight tremor of annoyance that had seeped into his voice. But like a flip switching in her brain, it suddenly became obvious what he was doing. “No,” she snapped, angrily pushing him away. “Stop trying to manipulate me.”

“Fine.” He returned to his feet in one swift movement. “Let’s try logic.”

“Logic?” Molly repeated with a derisive snort. “Logic has no place in this foolhardy discussion.”

“Why did you end your engagement with Tom?”

Molly frowned, startled and wary. “That’s none of your business.”

“You _are_ my business, Molly. Have been for some time now. Answer the question.”

She didn’t respond, merely stared at him. He stood there watching her, stubbornly waiting.

 _He knows I’m going to give in._ Molly hated that he was right. “You know why.”

“Tell me anyway. Tell me why an intelligent woman like yourself who sought love, marriage, and children would turn away from a man willing to give her all those things and more.”

It was at times like this that she hated Sherlock. Truly hated him. Molly glanced down at her hands in her lap. The empty place on her ring finger seemed particularly noticeable. She fisted her hand, wanting to hit something. She looked up at her tormentor. _Or someone_.

“Tell me, Molly.”

She inhaled a harsh breath, deeply mortified. “Because he wasn’t the man I wanted. At best, he was a shallow copy.” A lone tear cut a path down her cheek.

The tear did nothing to deter Sherlock. “A shallow copy of whom?”

“You.” She glared. “The longer I was with him, the more that became evident until one day I realized I couldn’t lie to myself any longer. Neither could I be the kind of woman he wanted. So I ended it for both our sakes. I was a fool to think I could ever make it work.” She swiped the tear away with her fist. “Happy?”

“No.” He sighed loudly through his nose. “Molly, I’m selfish bastard. I always have been. I make no apologies for that. I’m also temperamental, childish, egocentric, and ruthless when it comes to getting what I want.”

“You forgot inconsiderate, conceited, narcissistic, and vain,” she retorted.

“Vain?” he asked, one dark brow rose in surprise.

 _Is he truly so unaware? No, more like he thinks I am._ “I live here. I know how much hair product it takes for you to get that just-tousled-love-god style you go for. You also deliberately pop the collar on your coat because you know it makes you look dominating and irresistible.”

One corner of his mouth quirked in a sheepish smile. “Just-tousled-love-god? Really?” He shook his head, quickly squelching the humor. “Yes, well. My point,” he said, “is that you know all of these less than desirable qualities about me and more. You’ve known about them for years now.”

“So?”

“So, you’re in love with me anyway. You want me _anyway_. You had a kinder, milder, and decidedly more generic and boring version of me that could give you everything you wanted. But you rejected him because he _wasn’t_ me.”

She shrugged defensively. “I’ll find someone else.”

“What makes you think you won’t do the same thing with the next idiot? You will. You want me, you love me. Clearly, that isn’t going to change.”

“If I’m away from you—”

“I was away from London for two years, Molly. It changed nothing in terms of your feelings. So why settle for a copy when you can have the real thing?”

She felt herself starting to cave. His logic was, after all, irrefutable. _No_ , she thought. _This is about more than logic. I have to resist, turn this around in a way so that he could see how retched and doomed an idea it truly is._ “You don’t want a romantic relationship, Sherlock. Not really. You just got through complaining about the last one you were in with Janine.”

“That wasn’t a relationship. Whether I did it because of the case or loneliness, I was merely playing a role. Janine had no clue of the man I really am. You do. What’s more, you _like_ who I am. Believe me, that’s a rare attribute. One I prefer in my companions.”

“I’m not John. I never will be.”

Something like fear flashed across his face, but it was too fast for her to tell for sure or to process what it meant. He gave a cynical laugh. “Don’t tell me you, like the general populace, think he was my lover?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. John’s as straight as an arrow. And stop trying to get me off topic. You know what I mean when I say I’m not John. The same as I know why you asked me to go solving crimes with you that day after you came back.”

“That was to show my appreciation for you helping me.”

“It was also so you could try out a new work partner because John wasn’t speaking to you at the time, you missed him terribly, and you weren’t entirely sure he’d ever come back.”

The lightness returned to his expression, the one that told her she’d impressed him with her deduction. It was very close to the expression he’d been wearing after their kiss. She hated how giddy that made her.

Sherlock turned away, as if considering his words carefully. Then, turning back, he said, “I do miss John. It was foolish of me to think he wouldn’t move on after I left London—especially considering he thought me dead. But he did move on. He found a good companion in Mary, and I genuinely wish him well. By asking you to stay here, Molly, I’m not expecting you to take his place. I’ve never wanted that.”

“But if John weren’t married to Mary—”

“He’d be married to someone else. It’s what he was seeking anyway, a wife and family.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I can’t tell you the number of times his romantic life got in the way of the work. Having Mary there allows for the better separation of those two things. She understands the importance of our work, and he, at least, seems more content.” He smiled. “It’s why I think a relationship between you and I would be best. You, like Mary, understand. And, unlike John, you wouldn’t feel the need to go anywhere. Ours would be a permanent arrangement.”

 _Surely he doesn’t mean …_ The implications were too much. Molly swallowed hastily, saliva going down the wrong pipe. She coughed, feeling strangled as she fought to clear her airway.

Sherlock stepped forward as if to offer assistance, but she waved him off. She was soon breathing normally again and wiped away the tears which had collected due to nearly choking.

 He cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable as if he’d only now realized what she’d inferred from his offer. “I should probably clarify that by proposing this relationship, I don’t mean it to include marriage, children, or any other such romantic tropes.”

Molly shook her head in frustrated denial. “I don’t even want to know what you mean by ‘romantic tropes.’ Sherlock, let’s be frank. You’re going to hate the hassle and inconvenience of having a girlfriend, and I’m going to end up disappointed and more brokenhearted than I already am. This _arrangement_ will end badly for _both_ of us. Isn’t it better to stop to things now?”

He continued, as if she hadn’t spoken. “However, I am willing to guarantee you fidelity, respect, adventure, affection, scientific experimentation, and a remarkable, two-bedroom flat with a live-in Mrs. Hudson. Who else can offer you that?”

Molly couldn’t help it. She had to ask. “Affection? What does that entail precisely?”

Sherlock blushed and cleared his throat again. “Sex.”

He looked boyish and vulnerable and oh, so cute. It was amazing because in all the years she’d known him, in all the times she’d thought him handsome or gorgeous or beautiful, she’d never ever thought of him as cute. Not Sherlock Holmes. But in this moment, he was. So much so that she wanted to take him in her arms again and kiss him and take his clothes off, and she could do all of that and more if she only said yes to—

_Nope. Bad idea. I’m not sure why it’s a bad idea right this second, but it is._

He moved closer, as if he could hear her thoughts. _Oh dear Lord, I’m going to say yes._ He took another step, the smirk curling his mouth leaving her no doubt that he could all but smell victory within his grasp. Fear made her blurt out the first thing to come to her. Anything to get him to stop.

“You’re a virgin.”

It worked. Sherlock stopped. He frowned. He blinked rapidly. He frowned some more. His mouth opened, shut, and then opened again, but no sound came out.

Molly had always wanted to leave the great detective speechless, but not like this. It was almost funny. _Almost._ “Look, Sherlock, I appreciate the offer, but this isn’t going to work.”

“Because you believe me to be a virgin?”

“Well, no. I mean, that wouldn’t really be a problem because I …” _Great, now I’m the one blushing._

“Because you … what?” he prodded as he studied her face.

“I mean, I could teach you … that—I mean, I … Oh, God. I don’t know what I mean.” She buried her head in her hands, wishing the ground would rise up to swallow her whole. His lack of response made her feel worse. Finally, the sofa dipped down beside her as he settled himself there. He reached over to gently pry one hand away from her face.

“It’s my understanding that in these situations, it’s usually the virgin who’s embarrassed.”

She looked at him, dropping her other hand in her lap. “No situation is ever usual where you’re concerned.”

He thought for a bit and nodded. “This is true.”

“Usual or not, this won’t work, Sherlock. Me and you. It won’t. No matter how much lust or logic you use to try to gain my agreement, it won’t work.”

He squeezed her hand, making her remember he was still holding it. “You say lust and logic won’t work. How about we try the blunt truth?”

“And what is that?”

“Molly, I spent two years of my life dismantling Moriarty’s web, two years where I suppressed every emotion I had and focused on nothing but the work. I did it because it had to be done, because it was the surest way to keep those I care for safe, and because it was fun. I completed the job, and I came home.”

“Because you didn’t have distractions. That’s all I’ll ever be to you.”

He ignored her words. “I came home to find the people I’d been protecting had moved on without me. The world had moved on without me.”

“They believed you were dead.”

“Some knew otherwise.” He stared hard at her when he said it. “It was quite a shock to me how easily people could move on, how quickly I could become irrelevant—”

“You were never irrelevant.”

“—and I realized my life had become shallow, cold, and—frankly—a lonely existence. It was fine when I was taking down Moriarty because I always knew what I was coming back to. But to be alone in London …” His eyes darted downward, like he was ashamed. “I don’t do well alone. I just … don’t. I’ve tried to convince myself otherwise, but when you were leaving tonight, I realized …”

Whatever this was, it wasn’t a manipulation. She knew it. He was telling the truth, and it was costing him dearly. It almost scared her to see him like this. “Sherlock, I …” She broke off, unsure of what to say. He was her Sherlock now, but so much more … vulnerable. Yes, that’s what he was. Like one wrong word from her could irrevocably break him. _No, not me. I’ll never have that kind of power over him._ “Don’t you understand? I can’t be what you—”

Without warning, his gaze shot up to catch hers. “You saved my life, Molly.”

“I just helped you by finding a body in the morgue, Sherlock. Anyone in my place would have—”

“No, I’m not talking about when I faked my death. I’m talking about when I was shot.”

“What? I wasn’t even there.”

“You were. You know about my mind palace. You remember what I’ve told you about it?”

She did. She also remembered how fascinated she’d been when he’d described it in detail, how it worked and how it he was so careful with what information he filled it with. “Yes.”

“When I was shot, I went to my mind palace, desperate for a way to survive until help could arrive. I knew I didn’t have much time, and that only someone truly brilliant could help me.” He squeezed her hand again. “It was you, Molly. It was you who was there. You told me—step by step—what was happening to me and how to survive it.”

She shook her head, so overwhelmed tears poured down her cheeks, but she could do nothing to stop them.

He nodded. “Yes, it was you. Only you. I wouldn’t have trusted anyone else.”

“But John—”

“John wasn’t there. I swear. Whenever I’m at the end of my rope … when I’m at the bottom of the barrel and there’s appears to be no other solution but to give up …” He stopped talking and frowned, as if he were irritated at himself for not being able to adequately explain what he meant. Then, in a flash, his whole demeanor changed like the answer had come to him. He shifted to sit nearer to her, staring her down. “Ask me, Molly.”

Bewildered, she said, “Ask you what?”

“Ask me the question you always ask.”

“What question?”

“The one you ask whenever you see me at the end of my rope, when I’m at the bottom of the barrel and there’s no other solution but for me to give up. Ask me, Molly.”

She knew then what he wanted. _No._ _Don’t do it._ If she gave in, there would be no stopping him. “Sherlock, no—”

“Yes. Ask me.”

“It’s not—”

“ _I beg you_.”

His voice was full of desperation. He gripped her hand like it was the only thing saving him from drowning, and she couldn’t have denied him right then if her life had depended upon it. She never could when he was like this. Echoing the strength of his hand on hers, heart squeezed painfully, and she felt an unwelcome pleasure of being needed. By _him,_ of all people. She sighed.

“Ask me, Molly.”

Then, she did. “What do you need?”

His answer was swift and sure. “You. Just you.”

“OK.” Her voice was low and whisper soft, but she knew he’d heard her.

Sherlock raised her hand, bringing it to his lips to press a gentle, but ardent kiss across her knuckles. He’d closed his eyes, and she saw a tremor of some deep emotion pass over his face. To be treated with such care and such affection, it was too much. It was the single most romantic moment in Molly’s life. _Maybe this can work, after all._

Finally, he opened his eyes and looked at her. A slow, endearing smile stretched over his face. She smiled back, hit with an unexpected bout of euphoria. It was unbelievable. She, mousy Molly Hooper, was in a romantic relationship with Sherlock Holmes. _Sure_ , a small voice in the back of her head interjected, _but not the one you wanted._

 _It’s Sherlock. I’ll make do._ She felt drunk in the knowledge that she could have him—or at least more of him than he’d ever offered anyone else. _I’ll take it._ She knew she should berate herself for settling like this, but she could summon the energy or care to do so. _He needs me. He needs_ me _._

“Excellent. Now,” he said, releasing her hand as he scooted back a bit on the sofa. Then, steepling his fingers under his chin, he said, “One more last thing to handle, and we can consider this whole matter settled.”

“And what thing is that?”

“My virgin status.”


	22. Virgin Territory

“It’s OK that you’re a virgin.”

“I know it’s OK.” The second the words left his mouth, Sherlock wanted to recall them. They’d come out entirely too fast. _Not good_. The upward pitch of his voice also belied defensiveness on his part. _Very not good._ Then again, everything had stopped going according to any kind of plan the second this woman had entered his flat.

Instead of directly calling him a liar—as he would have done her if the situation were reversed—Molly leaned in and said, “Actually, it’s kind of … arousing … that I’ll be your first lover.”

He wasn’t sure if it was what she’d said or the throaty way she’d said it, but something had caused a great deal of blood to begin pooling in his lap. Sherlock tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. The dryness crept into his throat, which made him cough. Molly reached a hand towards him, but he instinctively jumped back, slamming into the arm of the sofa. His bruised ribs reminded him of their existence. Sherlock scrambled to his feet and beat a hasty retreat to the kitchen, intent on getting a glass of water and a better hold on himself.

 _Extremely not good._ He snagged a glass from the cupboard, sloshed some water into it, and downed it in one gulp. _Get a hold of yourself, man._ He pushed the empty glass back under the running tap, trying to figure out how to properly explain himself without making this whole situation any more unbearable. _Perhaps it would be better if I skipped the explanation, kissed her, and let nature take its course?_ Kissing her had worked quite well earlier.

The idea that, after all these years of consciously abstaining, he was taking a lover—much less a … _girlfriend_ —was too much to think about right now. If he thought about it, he wouldn’t do it. He would detail the myriad of reasons this was wrong, not only for him, but for her. Sherlock knew that, but the idea of Molly Hooper leaving his life for good was just as unthinkable. More so, actually. _You can do this._  

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

He jolted at the sound of her voice at the doorway. Keeping his glass under the tap, he looked at her, trying to act nonchalant. “Getting some water, of course. I needed water. Is there a problem with me getting water?”

“You’re overfilling your glass.”

Sherlock turned, surprised to see the liquid running freely over his glass and hand and splattering down into the sink and along the counters. From the amount of spray everywhere, any moron could deduce the glass had been filled for quite some time now. _How did I miss that?_ He turned off the tap, jerking the glass towards himself. But this only succeeded in getting water sloshed down the front of his shirt. _Jesus._ He grabbed a nearby hand towel and tried to quickly mop himself dry with what little dignity he could muster.

Molly took all of this in from the doorway, a sweet half-smile on her face as if she found the whole thing endearing. That only made matters worse. Then, she had to talk and take it from worse to intolerable.

“We don’t have to do anything tonight, if you don’t want to. We can take things as slow as you like, you know. Until you’re comfortable. And ready.”

“M-M-Molly,” Sherlock said, clearing his throat to rid himself of this absurd stutter. It wasn’t helping his case. None of this was. _What the hell is wrong with me?_ He knew the answer to that, but refused to dwell on it. Best to move on. “Where did you get the idea that I’m a virgin?”

She shrugged. “I just know you are, and it’s fine. Does it matter?”

“It matters. Tell me,” he said.

“It was when I kissed you. I’d always known you weren’t big on sex, but I thought that was … well, for other reasons. But when I kissed you in my room, everything became clear.”

Nothing was clear to Sherlock. “What are you talking about?”

Molly frowned. “When I kissed you …”

“Yes?”

“And you …”

“Yes?”

“Well, you …”

“Yes!?” His voice hit a high octave on the third “yes,” but he didn’t care. Here he was, minutes into a relationship, and she was already driving him insane. He’d always known the danger of females, but never knew they could work this fast.

“You didn’t kiss me back.”

That proclamation hit Sherlock like a fist to the solar plexus. _What?_ He racked his brain, trying to recall. The memory of her kissing him was vivid. He had, after all, replayed it in his mind many times. Mostly because he hadn’t been able to understand what it was about her mouth on his that had affected him as it had, but also—if he was being honest with himself—because he’d been stunned that Molly Hooper could evoke such a reaction in him. _Molly Hooper?_

He said, “I was surprised. That’s all.”

“I kissed you a long while, Sherlock. Too long for surprise to be the reason you didn’t respond.”

He remembered the hurt on her face and how she’d clambered back into her bed, as if she couldn’t get away from him fast enough. He’d known she’d taken his lack of response as rejection, but this? Never. “And this is the reason you think I’m a virgin?”

“I put everything I had into that kiss. No man has ever withstood it as you did.”

_I wish I’d withstood it as much as she thinks I did._

She sighed. “It was like kissing a statue.”

Since he had no ready reply to that, he gulped down more water to give himself time to form one. Finally, when the glass was empty, he patted his mouth dry with the towel and said, “I kissed you earlier. Quite vigorously. And I might add, you responded just as vigorously.”

“You mimicked me.”

“What?” _She knows?_ He raised his glass to swallow more water, but there was none to be had.

“You kissed me the same way I had kissed you. It was like you memorized everything I did to you and then repeated it back to me.” Her eyes narrowed at him as she took in the disbelief no doubt written on his face. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice? A few of those moves you employed I invented, buddy.”

“ _Buddy_?”

She clasped her hands in front of her and fully entered the kitchen, stepping uncomfortably close to him. “Now, if this romantic relationship between us is going to work—”

“I wouldn’t call it _romantic_.”

That stopped her. “You want it to be platonic then?”

“No.”

She grinned, triumphant. “As I was saying, if this romantic relationship—”

“But do we actually _have_ to say it like that?”

She sighed again, louder and heavier this time. “If this _companionship_ …” She paused to look at him expectantly.

He inclined his head in agreement and gestured for her to continue.

“If this companionship is going to work, we need to be honest with each other. Completely. Can you handle that?”

 _Does she not realize what she’s asking? People think they want honesty, but that rarely turns out to be the case._ “Yes, but I’m not sure you can.”

The seemed to stump her. She stared at him, eyebrows raised.

He explained, “My honesty has a tendency to offend the general populace. In fact, my honesty has, on more than one occasion, caused you to leave the room in tears.”

Molly seemed to deliberate the ramifications of this carefully before she said, “I don’t care. I want you to be honest. I can handle it.”

He smiled, liking this already. At last, something positive was coming from this. No more having to watch his words. This could turn out better than when he lived with John.

“But no manipulating me.”

  _Then, she has to go and ruin it._ “But what if I really need you to do something and you refuse?”

“Then, I refuse and you accept it.”

His previous happiness vanished. Just as quickly, something occurred to him. _Maybe if I’m careful and Molly doesn’t realize I’m manipulating her, it won’t count._ “Fine.”

Molly frowned, wagging a finger in his direction. “I mean it, Sherlock. I catch you trying to manipulate me one time, and I’m out of here. Got it?”

The panic and fear returned, and he knew in that moment that he would do anything to make that go away for good. Even break every rule he’d ever made for himself. It was also odd—and decided inconvenient at times like these—how well she knew him. “Fine.”

He watched her shoulders relax. Somehow, this small gesture calmed him as well.

“If we’re being honest with each other,” he said, “it’s my duty to inform you I’m not a virgin.”

Her face fell, almost as if she were disappointed. _Does she want me to be a virgin? Don’t women ordinarily prefer a more experienced partner in the bedroom arts?_ He remembered her saying how arousing she had found the idea of being his first lover, but he’d thought at the time that she was mostly trying to make him feel better.

She edged closer, her eyes searching his face as if looking for traces of a lie. Guilelessly, he stared back at her, knowing there were no traces to be found.

“You … you’re … you’re not?” she asked.

He shook his head, waiting to see what else she would do. He’d always thought he knew Molly Hooper, but he was slowly starting to realize just how untrue that was _. Fascinating._

“What—When—How?” she sputtered, apparently unable to complete a question.

“Nineteen. University. It was more of an experiment than anything else. Well,” he added, “and boredom.”

Molly opened her mouth, surely to ask more questions. He rushed ahead, already knowing the answers she sought. “I have no idea who she was or the particulars. In fact, I deleted the memory a long time ago. I also deleted the kissing, which is why I was a little unsure of how to proceed. With Janine, she seemed to like it when I mimicked her moves. You don’t?”

“It’s fine,” she said, still seeming too surprised to say anything else.

“The only thing I kept were the bare facts. I figured they might come in handy one day.”

“You just deleted the memory?”

He nodded. “You remember when I explained about my mind palace? Well, I only retain those facts and memories that are truly important. Everything else I delete to make room.”

Something about that seemed to disappoint her, but he couldn’t fathom why that would be.

“So, you had sex one time.”

“No, there were others.”

“Others?” she repeated, her voice sounding oddly hollow.

He shrugged. “I don’t know how many exactly. I deleted them.”

She opened her mouth again, but he beat her to the punch. “Why have sex? The same reason most people have it, I suppose. Sex is pleasurable, and I was young. It was nice, the rush, the freeing feeling of not having to be in my brain for those minutes, but it wasn’t enough. Soon, I got bored and didn’t like the obligations that went with it; so I gave it up.”

“‘Gave it up’? You make it sound like its cigarettes or alcohol.”

“Isn’t it?”

She considered this before she said, “I guess. What obligations came with it?”

“Sex usually goes hand in hand with relationships. I don’t do well with relationships—with few exceptions. From early on, I’ve been married to my work. A choice had to be made. I chose work. Besides, as I told you before, suppressing emotions helps me be a better detective.”

She looked away from him, her face pensive in a way that didn’t make him hopeful that this conversation was over. After a bit, Molly moved over to the table and collapsed into one of the chairs. One of her hands landed on the table, flattened out against the grain of the wood.

Panic returned. Molly looked like she was reconsidering things. He didn’t like that. She had agreed to this. She knew him. She said she wanted honesty. She couldn’t take it back now. He watched as the hand slowly transformed into a fist. He wanted to say something, anything so she wouldn’t look like that anymore. But instinct told him to wait while she processed everything. So, he waited.

Finally, the fist loosened and she glanced up at him. “This won’t work.”

“Yes it will.”

“This is madness.”

“Relationships frequently are—or so I’m told.”

“You’re married to your work. How many times have you told me that?”

“So?”

“If you’re married to your work, what does that make me?”

“The one woman who won’t be threatened by my work. The one woman who understands me. The one woman I trust above all others. My companion. The one I choose. I’ve never had a romantic relationship, Molly. Never. Never wanted one.”

“You don’t want one now.”

“I want you. Isn’t that enough?”

“You gave up sex, remember?”

He sighed. “The obligations I spoke of before? Well, having sex with someone involves a certain level of trust and intimacy and connection. Even if one completely removes themselves from the intimacy and connection of sex, you can’t remove yourself from the trust. There are few people I trust in my life. In fact, there are only three. You are one.” He moved to stand next to her. “So trust me when I say I can handle this. I can’t promise it’s going to always work out or that I’m always going to do the right thing. But I can promise that I _want_ this. I want you.”

The fist flattened out again as she used it to rise from her seat. They stood together, barely an inch of space between them. Neither spoke. Sherlock barely breathed. Then, at last, her hand crept across the space until it was pressed against the top of his still soggy shirt.

“You’re all wet,” she said. Slowly, her head tilted upward. Her eyes locked with his. Those eyes. Deep, dark caverns. So easy to get lost in.

“Yes,” he said, huskily.

“Take off your shirt.”

He remembered when she’d said that and he’d nearly come out of his skin. _Was it really only yesterday?_ It felt like years ago. Without hesitation, he said, “You take it off.”

Her hands shook as they went about their task. Still, the buttons were undone quickly, and the material of his shirt was spread as her hands caressed him, bringing delicious warmth to his wet, cold skin. She tugged the shirt over his shoulders. He helped her, shrugging it to the floor.

“Oh,” she said, her fingers resting over his ribs.

He looked down, suddenly remembering how sore he was there.

She said, “You took off the tape.”

“Yes.”

“You’re still pretty badly bruised. Does it hurt?”

“Yes.”

Molly lowered her head and placed a series of soft, warm kisses against the bruise. Any soreness he’d experienced evaporated, replaced by an ache of another kind. She looked back up at him.

“Want me to make it better?”

He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. “Y-y-yes.”

Straightening, she took his hand in hers and pulled him out of the kitchen. “Come with me then.”

Sherlock couldn’t have denied her even if he wanted to. In fact, all the only thing he could think to utter as he followed her down the short hallway to his bedroom was the same word he’d been saying.

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Warning (since I promised someone I would issue a warning): I’m gonna earn my M rating in the next chapter.


	23. The Undone And the Divine

After the bedroom door was closed behind them—and locked securely because Mrs. Hudson did not always await permission to enter during her laundry-collecting fits–Sherlock kissed Molly. Her mouth was just as he remembered it. Supple and welcoming and magnificent to partake. She claimed a more passive role, taking everything he had to give. He knew the boon she was granting. It allowed him the freedom to explore, which he did in great detail, to craft his own moves—since she’d practically thrown down the gauntlet when she’d pointed out that he’d mimicked hers—and to gauge what particularly stimulated her and what did not.

He started slow with long, open-mouthed kisses. Next he nibbled around the edge of her lips before sucking her bottom lip between his own. Molly seemed to especially like that. When he shifted back to the more leisurely kisses, she moaned in vexation, took matters in her own hands, and thrust her tongue into his mouth. It was teasing dash of tongue, sliding alluringly against his before moving away. Spurred, he reciprocated, angling his head to deepen the kiss. She sighed, melting into him.

After more heated kisses, she abruptly pulled away. Disoriented, Sherlock reached out to bring her back, but his hands grasped air as she nimbly escaped him and receded towards the bed. Her shoes and socks came off first. Next, she reached up, removing the hair tie from her customary ponytail. Her jumper and undershirt followed, swinging over her head and disappearing across the room. He blinked in wonder as mounds of brown hair spiked with hints of red spilled about Molly’s milky shoulders. Her eyes watched him, as warm and comforting as a cup of chocolate on a blistery morning. Her cheeks were splashed with a rosy hue which matched the color of her swollen lips. Had she always been this beautiful? If so, how had he not seen it?

_I always miss something._

He closed the distance between them, running a hand up her arm, around her shoulder past the thin strap of her white cotton bra, up the slim column of her neck, and into her hair to cradle the back of her head. His other hand cupped and caressed her shoulder, pulling her more fully into his embrace.

“You’re so small,” he breathed.

She curled into herself defensively. It was so subtle an action that, if he hadn’t been touching her, he’d have missed it.

“What? What did I do?” he asked, bewildered at how he might have caused offense.

Molly jerked away from him. Arms crossed themselves over her form self-consciously, hiding her breasts from his view. Then, as if she’d changed her mind, she shot him a determined glare. Reaching behind her, she unhooked the bra, pulled it free of her body, and tossed it to the floor. There, she stared him down, spine straight, shoulders back, arms at her sides, pert breasts pointing at him. The right one was slightly larger than the left. His eyes feasted on these creamy-looking mounds, paying particular attention to the hardened nipples the color of bruised raspberries. Sherlock yearned to taste them, to see if they would be as divine as he imagined.

Molly’s expression stopped him.

“This is me, Sherlock.”

“Yes?” he said, unsure why she was telling him this.

“Take it or leave it.”

 _Is this the beginning of another detailed conversation?_ If so, it would be midnight before they actually got down to business. He had no patience for that. _Not now._ After years of purposefully abstaining from sex and suppressing his needs in that area (while inwardly mocking those who didn’t), this was a humbling admission to make. “Why would you think I wouldn’t take you? Haven’t I made myself clear?”

“My breasts are small.”

Sherlock gave them another glance. He couldn’t help himself. They were an utter delight. _Can’t she see that?_ He returned his attention to her face. “Yes.”

“So is my mouth.”

“So is everything about you, Molly. What is the purpose of this conversation?”

“You don’t like small breasts or small mouths.”

“What idiot told you that?”

“You did.”

Few times in his life had Sherlock ever been this confused. Here he was standing in his bedroom shirtless across from an equally shirtless woman with who was spouting nonsense at him. “When did I tell you this?”

“During the Christmas party you and John had. Remember? You said I had dressed up because I was trying to compensate for the size of my mouth and breasts.”

 _Oh, dear God, will the ramifications of that horrendous night never cease?_ “As I recall, I also apologized for my rude remarks.” When her expression remained unchanged, he added. “Without anyone telling me to.” _I should get credit for_ that _at least._

 “The comment still stands,” she said with a shrug. “You like what you like. Admit it.” Her shrugging made her breasts jiggle in the most appealing way. It was all he could do to remain where he was.

There was a pause.

“Sherlock?”

He looked up. “Yes?”

“Did you hear what I said?”

He thought back a moment before it all came to him. To which, he replied, “I never indicated I preferred big breasts. I simply pointed out yours were small, which,” he took the opportunity to look again, “they are. However, at no time have I stated I didn’t like them. I do. Very much. In fact, I have quite explicit plans for your breasts just as soon as you get over whatever has upset you. More to the point, I think you’ll be hard pressed to find a heterosexual male within this country who wouldn’t like them. Men are a simple lot, Molly. We enjoy breasts pretty much on sight. Size is irrelevant.”

“But when I took off my shirt, your first words were ‘You’re so small.’ What am I to infer from that?”

“Woman,” he growled, uncaring that his frustration was showing. He was boiling over here. She needed to know that. “That wasn’t a comment on your breasts. It was about you as a whole. In case it’s escaped your notice, you _are_ small. In comparison to me, you seem ever more so. I feel like I could break you with the weakest of grips. _That_ is what I was talking about. Would you prefer I use another word to describe you? Petite, perhaps? I—”

He wasn’t able to finish as Molly rushed him, wrapping her arms around his neck and tugging him into a kiss. _Thank God._ For a petite woman, she had an uncommon strength. He liked that, especially considering that it meant the breasts they’d been so thoroughly discussing were now rubbing nicely against his torso. He returned her kiss, sliding his hands down to touch them. Their softness made him want more, but Molly wasn’t done with him yet. Her enthusiasm was so great that she began to rain kisses along his jaw and down his neck. His hands fell away as he let her have her way with him. When she stopped to run her hot tongue along the ridge of his collar bone, he felt himself tremble in way he never had before. _Molly Hooper_ , he thought with amazement. _Who knew?_

Her hands moved down from his neck, caressing his chest as if she were a blind person memorizing a path. When they made it to his side, he jolted. She stopped to look at him.

“Ticklish?” she said with a roguish grin.

Not in the mood to be teased, he groaned, picked her up, and walked over to bed.

“Should you be carrying me? Be careful of your ribs,” she warned, pressing more kisses against his neck.

He settled her on the bed. “You talk too much,” he said, giving her a quick kiss before he straightened and moved away from the bed.

Molly propped herself up on her elbows. “You want me to shut up?” she taunted.

He nodded, undoing the top of his trousers.

Molly spread her legs, placing her feet flat on the bed and stiffening her spine so her breasts thrust out at him. The picture she made, clad as she was in a pair of grey trousers and nothing else, should have been laughable or, at the very least, vulgar. But it wasn’t. It was the single most provocative image he’d ever seen.

He yanked off his trousers with a flourish, trying to be equally provocative. Unfortunately, he forgot about his shoes, which greatly hindered his progress. So much so that he ended up hopping around on one leg as he tried vainly to correct the situation.

Molly giggled. The humor caused a most becoming bloom of pink to spread down her chest and over her breasts. Finally free of his shoes, Sherlock rid himself of his trousers and adeptly shucked his shorts.

_That shut her up._

She was watching him. He smirked as he advanced, stalking her. The smile slid right off her face, and her eyes widened. Starting at the end of the bed, he crawled towards her. Inch by inch, he didn’t stop until he covered her. Molly’s arms collapsed out from under her, leaving her flat on the bed. He took advantage to capture her lips. But he didn’t stay there long. He was too intent on teaching her a lesson.

Sprinkling kisses along her jawline, he moved down slowly down her neck. Her hands came up, gripping at his arms and surging against him. He spared only a moment to press a single kiss between her breasts before he went right for what he’d been wanting all along. The first taste of her in his mouth wasn’t enough. He rolled the nipple between his tongue and lip, laving it and teasing it before he sucked more of the breast into his mouth.

Molly moaned, her hands moving down his back. Her nails dug in there when he changed breasts. When he ran his teeth lightly along the ridges of her areola, she gasped and the same hands which had been digging into the small of his back were suddenly clutching his buttocks. He tensed and looked down at her.

She smiled back at him. “Problem?”

“Got a firm hold there, do you?”

“Been wanting to do this a long time,” she answered, brazenly massaging the globes of his arse, and pulled at his hips so his hardening penis rubbed against the fabric of her trousers.

He chuckled, riveted by this wild facet of Molly. He wondered idly how many people had seen it. Surely not Tom. If so, he’d never have let her go, no matter what she’d said trying to break things off.

Sherlock leaned all of his weight on one arm, using the free one to grasp her right breast. It fit comfortably in his hand. He lightly squeezed the silky flesh. “I know what you mean.”

Molly arched like a cat enjoying a good petting. “I seriously doubt that,” she said. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you.” She lifted a hand to run it against his cheek. “No idea at all. If you did, you’d run right out the door.”

“Then, show me. Take me. Tonight, I’m yours.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” she said, hooking a leg around his hip.

There was humor in her expression, but something about the way she said her words made them feel prophetic and somehow permanent. He ignored this feeling and replied, “What is the slang they use today? ‘Bring it on’?”

Suddenly, without an ounce of notice, he was flipped onto the flat of his back. It made his ribs ache like the devil, but he was too surprised—and frankly aroused that Molly could pull off such a stunt—to complain. “Where did you—”

“I’ve got a lot more experience in the bedroom than you do, Sherlock.” She straddled him. “I know all sorts of tricks. Watch and learn.” Leaning down, she kissed him. She wasn’t passive now. If anything, it took all he had to keep up with her. She inflamed him, devoured him, her tongue doing things he’d never before thought possible. Then, when she’d tamed his mouth, she dismounted him and moved south. When her trail of nips and kisses made it to his chest, she halted to gorge on his nipples. Her mouth was relentless, her tongue was a miracle, and the slight grading of her teeth … Well, he nearly spent himself then and there. Were it not for nearly a lifetime of experience suppressing himself, he might have.

_We haven’t gotten to the actual sex yet, and here I am acting like the virgin she thought I was._

She moved lower, peppering his torso with kisses. Molly licked his hip bone, her hands caressing his arse and legs. Then, when he thought he would die in agony, she took his turgid penis in her hands. He hissed. Loudly. After a few skillful strokes, she kissed the tip and gave it a swirling lick. Then, her eyes locking with his, Molly took no prisoners and swallowed him in one gulp.

The heat and suction of her mouth, the feel of her all around him, the way she held and massaged his testicles even while she sucked him, it was too much to take in. His hips thrust against her unconsciously. He said things. Blabbered, begged really. He knew he did, but he couldn’t make out what exactly he’d said. He only knew she mustn’t ever stop.

The sensations were everything he remembered, but so much more. They were heightened somehow, intensified, spiraling out of control. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the length of time between now and his memory or that he’d deleted so much of it or if it was simply because it was Molly. He only knew he surely must be dying. Sherlock groaned. He panted. He keened against her.

Without warning, he exploded in her mouth. There was no holding it back. There was no time to consider holding it back. The glorious release was so consuming, he never wanted it to end. And it didn’t. For a long time. Molly never let up. Not for one second. She kept milking him until he’d ridden every moment of pleasure and felt himself hardening again. He was this woman’s willing prisoner. It was amazing.

Finally, with one more, soft kiss to his member, she released him. Rising up on her knees, Molly wiped the corner of her mouth and grinned at him. _The cat who got the cream_. Sherlock looked at this wanton, uninhibited creature in wonder, barely able to catch his breath. Then, without warning, she slipped from the bed.

“Where are you going?” he asked, sitting up in alarm. _Surely she didn’t think this was over?_

She took off her trousers, standing before him in nothing but her pink, cotton pants. “Not going anywhere,” she replied, fingers slipping into the waistband. In one motion, she tugged the pants down and off. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Sherlock didn’t have time to look at her or even process what was happening before she was back on the bed, straddling him once more. He reached up, still in awe of her, to touch her breasts. He fondled them, running the pads of his thumbs against the rigid nipples. He pulled closer, intent on tasting them again. They were as heavenly as he remembered.

He suckled her. Molly moaned and leaned into him, allowing him unfettered access. His hands progressed along her generous curves, drifting down to her waist, past her hips, and towards her vagina. He switched his attention to her other breast even as his fingers probed and glided inside of her. Molly was slick and sultry and as with everything else about her, welcoming. His thumb moved up to rub her clitoris.

Molly’s head fell back as she pushed against him, demanding more. He tinkered a bit, trying to find the right amount of pressure to exert, the right amount of friction to employ. But he apparently took too long. Batting away his hands, she regained control. He let her. It was so much more stimulating with her in charge. Gripping his penis, Molly gave him a few strokes before positioning him at the opening. Sherlock felt the head of himself slip inside her. _Heaven. That’s what this is._ Then, without warning, Molly brought herself down, taking him fully inside of her in one fell swoop.

“Yes. Oh, Molly,” he said, gutturally. He’d thought her mouth on him to be the peak of pleasure. But he was wrong. Never in his life had he been happier to be wrong. The tactile sensations … _Oh God._

She didn’t wait on him. No, like a woman on a mission, Molly began to move. Clutching fervently at his shoulders, she rocked against him. She was majestic. A goddess among mortals. Her hips flexed, her pelvis squeezed, her entire body seemed to clench around him. She whimpered, mewed like a kitten, seemed to find a position she really liked and increased her speed. At first, Sherlock held on, trying to catch her rhythm. All too soon, he found it. Then, it was like dancing. He advanced while she receded. She charged while he subsided. This continued until they worked in tandem, intent on following this concentrated passion wherever it might lead.

“Sherlock,” she moaned. “Yes, yes. Don’t you dare stop. Please … yes!”

Sherlock thrust and thrust and thrust. He couldn’t have ceased even if he had wanted to.

Molly let out a strangled cry and fell to pieces. His hands clamped around her hips, holding her to him, as he buried his face in her neck. Something about her coming apart in his arms sent him over the edge. With a shout and a shudder, his orgasm was upon him. He erupted inside of her as the sweet, carnal satisfaction overwhelmed him.

Finally, they both collapsed back on the bed. Sherlock fell backwards against the pillows. Molly slipped off of him, arranging herself at his side. They both fought for breath. Sherlock closed his eyes, riding the little aftershocks of bliss fizzling all over. Contentment and complete satiation took over after that. Honestly, he felt like he could sleep for a thousand years.

Opening his eyes, he looked over at Molly. She was flushed, sweaty hair matted to her neck and forehead. Yet, all of this could not hide the matching look of fulfillment on her face. Sherlock smiled at her. She smiled back.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

He grunted, not sure he could even recognize pain at this point. “I’m pretty sure that’s my line.”

“Oh, I’m fine.” She stretched her arms over her head and arched her back, reminding him again of a feline. “Wonderful in fact.”

“I should be hurting. It was like trying to keep my seat on a wild horse. I was afraid I was going to lose my life more than once.”

Her eyes zipped to him. “Is that a complaint?”

“No, quite the opposite, actually. I never would have thought you capable of such unrepressed decadence. Feel free to make me your love slave whenever you like.”

Molly laughed throatily, and he was struck again by her. Somehow amidst everything, she had grown more beautiful. It seemed so natural to reach for her, to pull her close to him, to hug her, to kiss her. Not because he wanted sex again, but just to be near her. But he stopped himself. The intimacy was so dense between them it was palpable. He’d never felt this close to anyone before. _Anyone._ It was a head rush of emotion that he didn’t begin to know what to do with. It also made him decidedly uncomfortable. Exposed. Vulnerable. Defenseless.

 _No._ The knot in his stomach he’d forgotten about reared its ugly head. Sherlock suppressed it all, needing to feel his feet under him once more. He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress.

Then, he remembered pain. He groaned and held his side as it throbbed.

Her hand patted his back. “I’m taping those ribs again.”

Sherlock flinched against her touch, but tried to cover it by hastily getting up from the bed. “How about we eat first? I’m starving.” he said, pulling on one of his dressing gowns. “Shall I ring for takeaway? Chinese?”

It was only when he had the gown tied and a better hold on himself that Sherlock dared to give her a furtive glance. The unabashed love kitten/sex goddess in his bed was gone. In her place was little Molly Hooper, holding a pillow against her petite form. At the speed of a coin flip, the space between them had become uninviting and unwieldy.

“Sounds good. I’ll take a shower,” she replied with a small smile. “You know what I like.”

Her expression was a brittle façade, but he certainly wasn’t going to call her on it.

He nodded. “Indeed, I do. Feel free to avail yourself to one of my dressing gowns when you’re done.” And with that, he left his room and awkwardness between them behind.

_If only I could leave behind everything else as easily._


	24. Great Expectations

Molly nicked her leg shaving, stubbed her toe getting out of the shower, and nearly took a tumble slipping on the wet floor as she reached for a towel. Still, she considered as she dried herself off, none of these were the worst thing to happen to her today.

Wrapping the towel around herself, she carefully hobbled over to the sink. She wiped off the condensation fogging the mirror and stared at herself. Somehow, she’d always believed that if she and Sherlock ever got to this point, things between them would be better. She wasn’t a naïve little girl who thought sex could solve everything or that post-coital bliss would hit Sherlock like a hammer to the head, making him realize he was and always had been desperately in love with her. But she had assumed the experience would leave her gratified to have the connection with him and relieved to finally understand a bit better what it was that made this enigmatic man tick.

Instead, she felt lousy and the encounter had only complicated matters with more issues, questions, and mystery.

One minute, they’d been basking in the afterglow of what could have easily been termed as fabulous sex. Sherlock had been relaxed, smiling, and oh-so-charming that Molly had seriously considered rolling closer just to kiss him. The look they’d shared made her feel they were finally on equal footing and satisfied in her agreement to this risky arrangement he’d proposed. Then, like the stroke of midnight for Cinderella, the spell was broken. All the warmth and relaxed amiability in Sherlock had vanished, replaced with something cold and aloof.

Rising from the bed, he’d moved across the room, putting on his dressing gown as if he were alone. Observing the way he conducted himself, so detached from her and what they’d just done was a slap in the face. Watching him leave her without a single backwards glance was worse. The sinking feeling of dread in her stomach accompanying his absence became unbearable as she’d showered.

Something had happened to Sherlock. The questions were what … and why.

It was a natural inclination for Molly to wonder what she’d done to offend him, but that was ridiculous. She’d done nothing. He’d plainly enjoyed their time together. He’d even said she could make him her “love slave” anytime she liked. _No_ , she considered, _whatever this is isn’t me. It’s him._ But what was bothering him or why it was bothering him, she didn’t know.

 _Second thoughts, perhaps?_ While this was certainly possible, it didn’t feel wholly accurate to her. They’d done too much talking beforehand. Sherlock had been too adamant about the arrangement he’d proposed to not have fully thought it through. Sherlock always thought everything through. And once he made up his mind about something, he rarely waivered.

There was a third option, of course. This was Sherlock being Sherlock. He’d told her pointedly he would not suffer well with romantic tropes, and no one could ever claim he followed society norms when it came to expressing himself. He had, after all, spent years suppressing his emotions and compartmentalizing everything. Sex, even though he wasn’t a virgin, wasn’t something he was used to. And it took some getting used to. There was innate, inescapable vulnerability that went with it. Sherlock wouldn’t have liked feeling like that. Obviously, that could explain why everything between them had shifted as it had.

“You’re in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes,” she told her reflection. “What did you expect?”

 _More._ She flinched. _I always want more from him_. Molly looked away from the mirror, hating this weakness she had. She knew better than to do so, but she always yearned for more where he was concerned. Sherlock had made a lot of allowances for her, open doors in his life to make room for her, and trusted her when he had trusted no one else. That was the most he’d ever offered any woman and it should be enough for her.

It should be, but it wasn’t.

As she cleaned her teeth, Molly remembered back to when she’d first proposed living with him. She’d been so consumed with not being sent away from him that she hadn’t really paid attention to what he’d been trying to say. He’d been attempting to warn her off of him. All that “married to his work” business. Was this why? It had to be. Sherlock was aware of his own shortcomings. Truth be told, he’d been warning her of them since nearly the first day of their acquaintance.

She rinsed her mouth and straightened to look again in the mirror. A pale, weak-looking woman peered back at her.

“Suck it up, Hooper. You love him, flaws and all. If you want to be with him, you’ll have to make some adjustments to your expectations.”

 _Which will, no doubt, include dealing with a lot of bruised feelings._ But that was pretty normal when one was around Sherlock. He usually more than made up for it in other ways. Even as much as his sudden indifference cut her to the quick, the memory of their time together before that made up for it. The relaxed way he’d talked to her. The sincerity in his expressions. He wanted her. He’d said so. The splendor of his face as they were joined, his intensity as they made love, and the way he held her to him so desperately was something no one could ever take away. No one knew that side of him. No one except her. The tightly-controlled consulting detective had been putty in her hands—if only for a little while. And, if she had the fortitude to stick this out, he would be again. _And again and again._ _He’s mine. Not all of him, of course. But enough._

Better still, he had promised to be honest with her and no more manipulations. She knew how hard that would be for him, but he had promised. To make such promises, he clearly respected her and her place in his life. That had to count for something.

_I am willing to guarantee you fidelity, respect, adventure, affection, scientific experimentation, and a remarkable, two-bedroom flat with a live-in Mrs. Hudson. Who else can offer you that?_

She smiled, remembering his quirky proposal. She also thought back to Tom who’d always been overly affectionate and kind and generous. The first time she’d slept with him, Tom had stayed in bed cuddling her for hours and got up to make her breakfast, never letting her lift a finger to help. He also always got home on time, routinely cleaned up after himself, and often gave her the lead in decision making. Molly tried to imagine Sherlock doing any of that, but it was absurd. Tom had been everything a man should be to a woman.

_And you were bored out of your mind. Couldn’t get away fast enough, could you?_

A light knock sounded at the door.

“Molly, food is here.”

Sherlock’s deep baritone. A delicious shiver went through her at the sound. She frowned, trying to put herself to rights. “Be out soon.” Even as she said it, she knew she wasn’t ready to face him. Not yet.

After cleaning and affixing a plaster to the cut on her leg, Molly towel-dried her wet hair. Then, starting at the bottom and methodically working her way upward, she eased the snarls and tangles out of with a wide-mouthed, wooden comb. When the comb could be run through her hair unobstructed, she turned to the tube of lavender-scented lotion that she kept on the sink and began applying it generously to her body.

She paused when thought she heard someone else enter the flat. There were at least two people walking around and the distant hum of Sherlock speaking to someone. _Probably Mrs. Hudson._ The landlady had a penchant for showing up at all hours. Molly had grown as used to it, so much that she hardly ever batted an eye anymore.

She rubbed lotion into her calf and up her thigh, humming to herself so she wouldn’t have to hear Sherlock. His voice, even though she couldn’t make out what he was saying, was distracting. He was always distracting her, had always distracted her. She should hate him for it, but she never had. She knew now she never would.

As she massaged the lotion into her arms and across her shoulders, Molly knew she could accept Sherlock’s shortcomings. And while she knew better than to ever try to change any man, experience had taught her she could encourage the consulting detective to make small adjustments to his behavior. He’d listened to her advice concerning issues he’d had with John. Quite often, in fact. He even paid attention when she pointed out when he was making a berk of himself with her. She remembered back to that mortifying Christmas party, what she’d said to bring him low. He’d immediately apologized to her—something she’d once thought to never see. Maybe that’s what she needed to do. After all, this relationship was new to both of them. There had to be a margin for error and a reasonable learning curve. That they’d known each other for years meant nothing. They hadn’t known each other like this.

Whatever _this_ is.

Permanent companionship. That’s how he’d termed it. In a sweet, Sherlockian kind of way, it was tantamount to a marriage proposal. Not that she really needed that. Molly knew she wasn’t the kind of woman who required a husband and children to complete her. They weren’t check boxes she craved to tick in order to consider herself successful. She’d worked damn hard to get where she was in life. Her career wasn’t one in which many women excelled—especially at as early an age as she. But it left her fulfilled in a way few other things in life ever had. And there was still so much more she wanted to achieve. She wasn’t ready or willing to give any of it up, and marriage and children had a way of making a woman do that—modern world or not.

Whether Sherlock believed her or not, she had been truthful when she said she was married to her work. Being lonely had long been a problem, of course. Someone to come home to, someone to take care of and who would take care of her, someone to share a laugh with or whose shoulder you could cry on from time to time, and someone who stimulated her both inside the bedroom and out. That’s all she’d ever really wanted. Sherlock could give her most of that. Probably more than any other man had ever been able to.

_If I can suck it up long enough to show him how._

Yes, Molly decided, capping the lotion and returning it to its position on the sink. She could remain adaptable to Sherlock varying eccentricities and shore up some of her expectations. Then perhaps, with time, patience, and more than a little determination, she could teach Sherlock how to be in a relationship.

She thought she heard some rustling around in his bedroom, but she ignored this in favor of putting on his forest green dressing gown, which she’d brought in with her. Gathering all her hair up in a wet ball which she secured with a pink, cloth-covered hair tie, Molly opened the main door to the bathroom, prepared to take on anything.

And nearly plowed into Greg Lestrade.

“Greg?” she said, stumbling as she tried to avoid colliding with him. Thankfully, he caught her by the shoulders and righted her.

“Hi, Molly,” the detective inspector said, giving her a friendly pat on the arm as he released her. “You all right?” His eyes roved over her, seeming surprised to see her attired as she was.

“Yes. Didn’t know you were here. Took me by surprise. Just getting a shower, you see,” she said.

“Why are you wearing Sherlock’s robe?”

 _He’s going to know we had sex._ The second that happened, she knew a deluge of questions were sure to follow, something she was not prepared to handle right now. Trying not to panic, she gave a small laugh. “You know how it is. You don’t realize you left your pyjamas upstairs until you’ve already jumped into the shower.” She smiled, hoping her voice didn’t sound as high and squeaky to Greg as it did to her. “Besides,” she added as an afterthought, “Sherlock ate the last of the chocolate biscuits; so I figured this was adequate payback.”

Greg laughed. “Well, serves him right then. Good for you. Keeping him on his toes and all.”

“What are you doing here? Is there some kind of emergency?” Her suspicions jumped to Jim Moriarty, but something about Greg’s mood told her that wasn’t it.

 “Need Sherlock to consult on a case. Kidnapping. Political official’s son. High priority.”

“Really? How terrible for that family. How old is he?”

“Fifteen. They thought at first he’d slipped off to have a laugh with his mates, but a ransom note came in last night.”

“Which is when you should have called me,” Sherlock said, coming out of his bedroom fully clothed. The room suddenly seemed smaller. Or maybe it was that Sherlock’s presence seemed to suck up all the space. For the first time in a long time, Molly was struck speechless by the sight of the consulting detective and how … _good_ he looked. More than good. Tasty, Luscious, mouthwatering even. _Mine. I had him. Mine. He was just inside me. Mine. Can Greg go away so we can do it again?_ But as quickly as she entertained these erotic thoughts, she dismissed them. After all, there was a kidnapped boy in need of help to consider. The fact that Sherlock seemed equally unaffected by her presence also did much to cool her ardor. He couldn’t even be bothered to glance in her direction.

Greg strode closer to Sherlock. “I called you when I needed you.”

“You needed me _before_ they started sending body parts, Lestrade.”

Molly gasped. “Body parts?”

“Left thumb,” Sherlock answered, walking over to gather up his coat. He slid it on, grabbing his phone from where it lay next to his laptop. He studied something on the little screen for a moment. “Thankfully, the boy’s right handed.”

“How do you know that?” Greg demanded.

“It’s obvious if you know where to look,” Sherlock said, holding the mobile out to the detective inspector so the main screen was visible. Molly caught a glimpse of a picture of the greyish-blue joint of flesh that few people would be able to recognize as a thumb. She wanted to ask for a closer look, but didn’t think that was a good idea considering everything.

 Greg grimaced. “I’ve seen it, Sherlock. I’m the one who sent it to you, remember?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Let’s go then. You’ve already wasted enough time as it is.” Without another word, he started towards the front door, Greg at his side.

“Molly,” the detective inspector said, with a tip of his head. “Always good to see you.”

She smiled. “Good to see you as well, Greg.”

Something about this brief exchange halted Sherlock in his tracks. His abrupt stop nearly caused Greg to crash into him. Sherlock paid this no mind as he flipped about and easily navigated around the older man to position himself directly across from Molly.

“Molly …”

There was a pause before she realized she was expected to answer. “Yes?”

He swallowed hard, and she realized he hadn’t been waiting on a reply after all. It was more as if what he’d been wanting to say to her was stuck in his mouth. Suddenly, he stiffened in an overtly formal manner as he announced, “I don’t know when I’ll be back.” It came out louder than he’d probably meant and she couldn’t help but notice that, while he was certainly facing her and pointedly talking to her, he was looking at the wall behind her.

“OK,” she replied, not sure what was going on, but aware they had an audience. Trying to act nonchalant, she shrugged. “I’ll put your takeaway in the fridge so you can eat it another time.”

“OK,” he said.

“OK,” she said. Then, realizing she sounded like a complete moron repeating him like that, she added. “I’ll see you later then.”

“OK,” he said. His eyes zipped to meet hers, ever so briefly. Then, he stared at the wall again.

“OK,” she repeated, not knowing what else to say.

Sherlock stepped towards her. Just as fast, he stopped. Finally, with a tip of his head in her direction, which was eerily similar to the one Greg had delivered moments before, he turned on heel and exited the flat.

Greg remained in his wake, seeming confused. “Is he all right?”

“Yes,” she said. She wasn’t going to attempt an explanation, especially when she wasn’t altogether sure what that was herself.

Greg studied her for a moment before he turned to stare at the empty doorway. He looked back. “Did you two have a row?”

“No.” That _, at least, wasn’t a lie._

Greg opened his mouth to say something else, but Sherlock’s shout from downstairs ended that. “Must I drive your car as well as do your job, George?”

The detective inspector closed his eyes in exasperation. “He knows my name. I know he does. He only pretends otherwise to rile me.”

As Molly wasn’t so sure about that, she smiled and gave a noncommittal shrug. “Have fun.”

Greg headed out the door. “Not likely,” he called back.

All too soon, the noises and voices faded and Molly was left in the quiet of the flat.

 _Too quiet_ , she thought. After changing into her favorite Piglet pyjamas, she returned downstairs with Sherlock’s dressing gown. She hung this up in the bathroom and straightened up after herself in there before turning her attention to the food. She put Sherlock’s takeaway carton in the fridge as she had promised and sat at the table with her own. Intent on not focusing on Sherlock any longer and staying busy, she brought the latest book she’d been reading with her.

Nearly half an hour later, the lo mein was finished and so was the final chapter. She closed the novel, leaving it out for Sherlock. No matter how much he protested to the contrary, she knew he’d like the third book in the trilogy. She idly wondered if he would find it as funny as she had.

At loose ends, she scrubbed the kitchen—even though it really didn’t need it—and moved into his bedroom next. There was no way she was going to leave it in its current state for Mrs. Hudson to stumble upon. Molly knew the landlady was likely to find out about this latest turn in Sherlock’s and Molly’s relationship sooner or later, but she would rather have it be later. _Much later._

The second she entered the room, Molly knew cleaning it had been a good idea. It still smelled of sweat and sex. The bed was in disarray, pillows strewn across the mattress, and the sheet and half the comforter flung to the floor. Clothes were tossed here and there. Molly was especially chagrined to see her undershirt was draped over a lamp. Remembering Sherlock’s remarks about his annoyance at Janine leaving clothes everywhere, she started retrieving her items. Then, for good measure, she gathered up his clothes as well. She went to dump everything in the laundry bin in the lavatory. She stuffed everything in except for his shirt, which she held for a moment longer in her hand. Molly lifted the garment to her nose, inhaling deeply.

The sharp, spicy scent of the cologne he always wore gave her a head rush. But the second she started smiling, she stopped herself. _Now I’m smelling his dirty laundry?_ She frowned in disgust, shoving the shirt under the other clothes. _This is worse than when you had a crush on the man. This isn’t you, Molly Hooper. Go find something better to occupy your time._

She attacked the bed next, stripping it. Once she it remade with fresh linens, Molly binned the dirty laundry and returned to the lounge, feeling as jittery as a chocoholic in need of a brownie. She wanted to talk to Sherlock, to get all of this—whatever this was—between them sorted. It was driving her to distraction to have everything up in the air. But it could be hours before he returned home. Days, even.

Molly plopped on the sofa. “Welcome to being in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes,” she told herself bitterly. Just as quickly, the bitterness eased away. Sherlock was helping to reunite a scared and traumatized boy with his parents. He was making the world a better place and here she was being a prat because he wasn’t on hand to talk to. She flicked on the telly and tried to immerse herself.

An hour later, her eyelids were drooping as the day’s events started to take their toll. Molly switched off the television and got to her feet. She started shuffling towards Sherlock’s bedroom, but stopped herself. Should she be sleeping in there? Is that where they were now or did sharing a bed fall under romantic tropes? Honestly, with Sherlock, it was hard to tell.

Molly thought back to how irritated he had seemed to have Janine invading his space all the time. _Well,_ she thought, _his bedroom is definitely his space._ In fact, in the entire time she’d lived with him, today had been the first day she’d ever been in there. _Stay adaptable,_ she told herself. _Shore up your expectations._ Quelling a small grumble of irritation, she turned on heel and headed to her bedroom. She could handle this. Stay positive.

_After all, tomorrow is bound to be better._


	25. The Craving

Tomorrow was worse.

After a fretful night where sleep had eluded her, Molly crept downstairs in the early morning, intent on hashing things out with Sherlock. Anything so she wouldn’t have to ruminate about this anymore. Unfortunately, the consulting detective wasn’t there. One peek into his untouched bedroom told her he hadn’t been home.

_Typical._

Muttering to herself, she shut his door and stomped into the kitchen to make coffee. On days like today, she truly missed Toby, her beloved feline companion. He’d run away shortly after she and Tom moved in together. She’d searched and searched for him, but he was well and truly gone. Tom had proposed they get a dog, which they eventually did. But she’d never truly warmed to the puppy since every time she saw him, she thought about Toby and wondered how he was. She just hoped he’d been able to find a good home.

By the time she’d prepared her first cup of coffee, Molly decided she’d wallowed in this stuff with Sherlock long enough. Worry and anxiety helped nothing when she had no idea when he would return. Clearly, this latest case was a complex one. He could be at it for days. Besides, having a weekend off and the flat completely to herself were two luxuries she had no intention of wasting.

After a second cup of coffee, her usual good mood returned. Molly brought down her laptop, some reference materials, and her files and notes so she could begin outlining the idea she’d had for a paper. In her position at St. Bart’s, she was expected to publish on a fairly regular basis. Living with Sherlock, however, made this difficult to do. Generally because it was hard to find the time to concentrate when Sherlock was around. This was especially true when he was at loose ends. The man could be an annoying terror when faced with boredom. This she knew well. And, if Molly did happen to find the time, her flatmate habitually commandeered the kitchen table with his experiments, leaving her with nowhere to stretch out.

Spreading her supplies out at the now-cleared table, Molly settled down to work. When the outline was done, she turned to explore the subject a bit further in one of her books, cross referencing it with what she’d put in her notes and files. This led to a long sojourn on the St. Bart’s research intranet. An hour or so passed in peace, intense study, and meticulous scribbling until she was interrupted by Mrs. Hudson.

“Good morning, dears,” she called out.

Molly popped out from the kitchen to find the landlady hoisting her morning tea tray of goodies for her favorite tenant.

“He’s not here, I’m afraid,” Molly said. “Greg came by last evening with a case from the Met.”

“I thought I heard Sherlock yelling at someone on the stairs, but I was taking my herbal soothers and not up to visiting,” Mrs. Hudson said, cleaning off the smaller table near the main window and laying out the tea things. “Come join me for a cuppa. I’ve got fresh blueberry scones.”

“Sherlock prefers chocolate chip,” Molly said, hurrying over to help the older woman set things out.

Mrs. Hudson gave her a wink. “Well, you like blueberry. I don’t always have to bring tea around just for him, do I? He’s spoilt enough as it is. Besides, if they’re hot and he’s hungry, that boy’ll eat any scone I put in front of him. Be a dear now and get the milk. I’m out downstairs.”

Molly smiled, but she wasn’t fooled. Obviously, Mrs. Hudson had figured out she was up here alone. There was only enough food to be split between the two of them and not a bite more. But it didn’t matter. It had been a long time since she’d had a mother figure fussing over her, and she was intent on enjoying it. She hurried to the kitchen to fetch the milk.

Soon, both women were sharing a proper chat along with a light repast of tea, scones, jam, clotted cream, and a few sausage links. Mrs. Hudson commandeered most of the conversation, imparting the hottest gossip from the neighborhood as well as her delight at some new programme she’d found to watch.

“You should see it! I’m positively addicted. Mrs. Richardson from down the way got me hooked. She gave me Series One for my birthday. Well, I finished it in no time and had to run out and buy the others. It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen. I mean, there’s a lot of swearing and nudity and hacking people to bits, but it’s the characters you fall in love with. Although, don’t fall in love too much, dearie, or you’ll get your heart broken when they suddenly kill them off.”

Molly added a splash of milk before refreshing her cup with more tea. “Really? And what’s it called?”

“ _Game of Thrones_. Not my normal fare, I must say. But well worth the time. I’ll bring up the first series if you want.”

As Molly had nothing special planned for the remainder of the day other than finishing up work on the paper, to rest and ready herself for tomorrow’s work day, and steadfastly avoid obsessing about her confusing relationship with a certain consulting detective, she readily agreed.

Mrs. Hudson broke open a scone, adding a smear of jam and a dollop of cream. “How are things getting on between you and Sherlock?”

Molly, who had been lifting her cup to her mouth to take a sip, paused. Her mind worked in overdrive. Was that the reason Mrs. Hudson had decided to visit when she knew Sherlock wasn’t around? Did she suspect something had happened between them and come to get the scoop? _Oh, God_ , Molly thought with dread. _What if she heard us yesterday? Her flat’s just downstairs. Were we loud enough to be heard?_ Honestly, she didn’t know as she hadn’t exactly been paying attention to any noises they were making at the time.

Mrs. Hudson, for her part, prattled on, seemingly unaware of the angst her simple query had caused. “You’ve been a real wonder these last four months, Molly. Not one word of complaint, which is amazing. You have the patience of a saint. I’ve told Sherlock that more than once. He’s a tough one to live with. Believe me, I know, and John was always grousing when he stayed here.”

Molly narrowed her eyes as she scrutinized the landlady. _Nope, she knows nothing. I’d bet my life on it._ “It’s fine. I just appreciate you all taking me in,” she replied, taking a long swallow of her tea.

“You’re always welcome. And Sherlock really is a sweet boy when he has a mind to be. I imagine he and John only had all those domestics because they were so in love. Hot sex will do that to you.”

Molly choked. She couldn’t help it. The mere idea of John and Sherlock like that … that Mrs. Hudson would actually think … It was too much! Mrs. Hudson handed her a napkin. Once her airway was clear again and all of the spray from the tea was wiped up, Molly said, “What was that you said about Sherlock and John?”

Mrs. Hudson cradled her own tea in both hands, barely hiding a Cheshire grin behind the delicate, rose-patterned cup. “Oh, I don’t judge no one. To each his own, I say. I just know Sherlock was heartbroken when John announced his intention to marry Mary. You should have seen him skulking about the flat like he was. Poor, lovesick fool. But after he pulled that stunt with faking his own death, anyone could see it was over romantically between those two boys. The heart can only take so much, you know.” She sighed and sipped her beverage. “I’m just glad they were able to remain friends and go on with their adventures together. But I must say I was quite surprised to see John move on with a woman. A woman! Can you imagine?” She shrugged with a smile. “But I don’t judge.”

Molly opened her mouth to correct Mrs. Hudson on her many, many, _many_ misconceptions, but closed it just as quick. She had no interest in going down that particular rabbit hole. If Sherlock or John wanted that mess untangled, they could do it themselves. Still, Molly couldn’t help the giggle that escaped at the thought of how John would react to hearing all of that. She also couldn’t help herself from saying, “Well, Sherlock moved on with a woman as well, didn’t he? Janine?”

Mrs. Hudson scoffed. “Her? That was for a case. Anyone paying attention could see that.” She shrugged again. “Still, it was funny to watch Sherlock outmaneuver her. He’s as slippery as an eel, that one. Janine was a stubborn girl. I’ll give her that. Gave him a run for his money, she did. Always showing up at odd hours, staying over, trying to sit in his lap, snog him, and the like. But anyone could see how uncomfortable he was, poor soul. Sherlock’s a man who likes his space. Clinginess is the surest way to make him run for the hills.”

Molly nodded. She’d come to the same conclusion herself.

There was a twinkle of mirth in Mrs. Hudson’s eyes as she added, “I wonder what she would’ve thought if she knew how many times he stole downstairs to sleep on my settee to get away from her or just plain snuck out on her at night.” She gave a little laugh. “He didn’t have _that_ many cases. I was glad when all of it was over and done with. She kept rearranging my cupboards up here. I couldn’t find anything. So nice to have things back to normal.”

Somehow, Mrs. Hudson’s words made her feel better. She couldn’t exactly figure out why. Maybe it was because it reminded Molly of how well she knew Sherlock. She understood him sometimes better than she did herself. He might have been acting distant following their initial bout of sex, but he wouldn’t have run out on her. He might be out on a case right now, but he would return, and when he did, they would work this out.

Once the final scone was consumed and the last local scandal was broken down into juicy bits, Molly assisted in tidying up.

“Thank you for the tea, the breakfast, and the company, Mrs. Hudson.”

The elderly woman smiled at her. “Thank you for helping with cleaning the flat, Molly dear. You’ve been such a blessing to my poor hip, let me tell you. I’ve told Sherlock time and again that I’m not his housekeeper, but does he listen and clean up after himself? No. Just leaves it.” She shook her head and muttered, “As if I’d let any part of my house fall to shambles.” She picked up the tea tray again and started bustling for the door. “I’ll be up in a bit to collect the laundry. Feel free to come down later if you get too lonesome up here by yourself. I’m of a mind to roast a chicken.”

Molly didn’t bother to tell the landlady she didn’t have to do her laundry. Doubtless, she’d do it anyway. Instead, Molly thanked her again and shut the door behind her.

Strangely enough, getting back to work on her paper proved easier than she expected. She didn’t stop to ponder the whys of it; just worked diligently through the rest of the afternoon until the smell of chicken rising from downstairs alerted her that it was time for dinner. She’d not only outlined the paper, but had completed the initial draft. All in all, a fair day’s work.

Taking a bottle of wine she’d picked up during her last trip to the shops, she padded downstairs to Mrs. Hudson’s flat and happily enjoyed a dinner of roast chicken, peas and carrots, and boiled potatoes. Afterwards, she found herself persuaded to indulge in a bowl of apple cobbler and the first episode of _Game of Thrones_.

By the end of the second episode, Mrs. Hudson was yawning and claiming a need to get to bed. Molly took the remaining series discs upstairs and spent the rest of the evening watching them, as engrossed by the programme as Mrs. Hudson claimed to be. By eleven, she was so tired she took herself off to her bedroom, well aware that sleep would not be eluding her tonight.

 _OK_ , she thought as she climbed into bed. _Maybe the day wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be._

 

— **RE—**

 

When Sherlock returned home exhausted and frustrated, it was late in the evening. As tired as he was, there was no rest on his horizon. There was too much to be done. John followed in his wake, having been called to the case the previous evening when Sherlock ran into his first dead end.

Sherlock removed his coat and after tossing it over a nearby chair, dashed over to his laptop. John collapsed on the sofa with a wearied groan.

“There has to be more to the note,” Sherlock said to himself. “What are you missing?”

He held out a copy, his eyes roving over the words, words he’d memorized already. _A code of some sort? No._ He was sure of it. No witnesses. He’d searched the boy’s room, followed up on the few leads he gleaned there. It was like the teen had simply walked off by himself. Sherlock had talked to nearly everyone the boy knew or had come into contact with in the last two weeks. But there was nothing concrete on which to build a deduction. Now, all he was left with was this note and the knowledge that by noon, another body part would likely be delivered to go along with the thumb and toe they’d already received if the parents didn’t pay the millions the ransom demanded.

With a grunt, John clambered from the sofa and shuffled into the kitchen. “Do you have anything to eat? Please tell me there’s food in here. I’m starving.” This was followed by the sound of the fridge opening and then, “Bless you, Molly Hooper!”

Hearing Molly’s name made Sherlock glance up. He’d all but forgotten she was here. He looked around, almost expecting to see her sitting in her spot on the sofa. But she wasn’t there. A quick look at his watch confirmed why. It was half three in the morning. She was asleep. His eyes went to his closed bedroom door where she doubtless was right now. A flash of memory of her supple body wrapped around his left him dazed. This brought with it the unwelcome memory of how he’d left her … and things between them. Uncomfortable didn’t begin to describe it. He wondered if she was upset and what he might have to do to make her not that way. There was a reason he’d always believed relationships weren’t his area … because they weren’t. Still, he’d told Molly he would try and he would … eventually.

“Distraction,” he muttered, shunting the mental image of his pathologist away. He would deal with her later. “Much later.”

“What was that?” John asked returning to the lounge with a plate of sandwiches and a satisfied grin.

“Nothing. If you’re done cleaning out my fridge, this case needs our attention.”

“You have any new leads?”

Sherlock grunted and plopped into his chair.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” John said, taking his typical chair. He held out the plate. “Sandwich?”

Sherlock disregarded this in favor of entering his mind palace, intent on going over the case details one more time. Clearly, there was something he’d missed. John said something, but he ignored it.

He again became aware of his surroundings some time later. John dozed in his chair, the plate now empty and looking ready to fall out his lap at any moment. Sherlock rose, rescuing the dish before it fell and placing it on one of the side tables. Moving towards the window, he stared down at the empty street below. The sky had lightened to a steely grey, an indication dawn was on its way. His frustration mounted as he knew nothing more now than when he’d returned home. At times like this, a cigarette was just the thing to sharpen his focus. But he knew the second he lit up, John would wake and he’d have to hear a litany of reasons why smoking was bad for his health. There was also the inevitable follow up where he’d quit and have to suffer the vicious withdrawals and cravings clawing at him day and night. They never truly left him, but the longer he went without giving in to the temptation of a cigarette, the easier it was to deal with them.

“Nicotine patches. I have some. Where are they?” He moved over to his desk and started rifling through the papers there. They were free of dust and stacked neatly, which told him Mrs. Hudson had been by to clean again. “Does that woman not realize I have a system? How does she expect me to find anything if she is always moving everything around?”

His frustration grew steadily worse, fraying his already thin patience. Sherlock started tossing files to the ground, clearing the desk of them in one fell swoop. _No patches. Damn._ Books followed and then he moved on to searching frantically through the drawers of his desk.

“I had Mrs. Hudson get rid of them.”

That made Sherlock pause. He looked up at his now-roused partner. “Pardon?”

John wiped at the sleep in his eyes, a frown on his face. “You heard me. You’re going to get nicotine poisoning if you keep using those patches the way you do.”

That shattered the last of Sherlock’s calm demeanor. He slammed the drawer he’d had open and snapped, “If I find myself in need a mother, John Watson, I’ll call her.”

“Keep your voice down. People are trying to sleep.”

“Maybe you should have thought about that before you threw away something which wasn’t yours,” Sherlock shot back. He thrust a pointed finger at the door. “Go buy me some more.”

“No. You don’t need them.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, deciding to use a different strategy. “A boy’s life hangs in the balance.”

“No.”

“You’re a heartless man, Dr. Watson.”

“And you’re a right git if you think I’m going to fall for such an obvious guilt trip.”

Sherlock immediately headed for the door, tired of arguing. He’d get them himself. John’s next words, however, stopped him abruptly.

“No one in a ten-block radius is going to sell you any. Remember? You bribed them not to.”

“That was years ago.”

“You’re right.” John said with a wide smile. “I bribe them now.”

Sherlock glared at him, contemplating fifty ways—in descending order of painfulness—that he could kill this man. John, seemingly not understanding the danger he was in, shuffled to his feet with a loud and lusty yawn.

He looked down at his watch. “I have to be at work in a few hours. I’m going to get some sleep while I can.”

Sherlock was about to shrug and offer creatively crude suggestions on where John could hie himself off to with great haste when he noticed where the man in question was headed.

 _Oh, shit. Molly!_ “Where are you going?”

Blearily, John turned to look at him. “I told you. I’m going to sleep for a bit. There’s no use for me to go home at this point. I’d just have to turn around by the time I got there. I’ll text Mary when I wake to see if she can bring me some fresh clothes.”

“No, I mean why are you going into _my_ bedroom?”

John seemed confused. “Where else can I sleep? Molly’s in my old room upstairs. Would you have me stretch out on Mrs. Hudson’s settee? Not going to happen. And I’m certainly not going to try to sleep on your sofa with you out here acting like a prat.” He turned back to the door.

“You can’t sleep in there!”

John sighed, long, hard, and loud. He didn’t bother to look back to Sherlock before he said, “And why is that?”

Sherlock scrambled for an excuse and came up empty handed. Telling the truth wasn’t an option since he wasn’t ready to answer questions about him and Molly yet. Especially since he didn’t exactly know the answers to those questions, and he was quite sure John was probably going to end up wanting to punch him at some point during the explanation.

“Look, your highness,” John said, “I don’t care if this is your bedroom. You’ve jerked me around for the last two days, and I need to get some rest before I go to work where I have to concentrate so I don’t kill anyone.”

“Oh please. You’re a GP! Your patients are never that serious.”

“Bite me, Sherl,” he said, evoking that infernal nickname Janine always used to call him.

John began to open the door. Sherlock ran over, trying to wedge himself between the doctor and the door and praying their argument hadn’t woken Molly. “I’m going to sleep in there! You can sleep on the sofa.”

“You never sleep while we’re on a case.”

“It’s been days. I’m exhausted.” Sherlock gave what he hope wasn’t too big an artificial yawn.

Something about this made John cross his arms over his chest and eye him suspiciously. His arms crossed over his chest. “Does this have something to do with drugs?”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock said, offended.

John looked at him for the longest time, trying to discern the truth.

“I’m clean,” Sherlock promised. “I swear to you.”

Finally, John nodded and said, “Fine.”

The two men remained staring at each other. Neither moved. John broke the standoff when he said, “Sherlock, it’s the middle of the night. I’m too exhausted to stand here arguing with you. Move!”

“Go sleep on the sofa.”

 “Is there someone in there you don’t want me to see?”

“No one’s in there.” _Damn. Too fast. No way that’s believable._

John rolled his eyes and shoved past him.

“No, John! Wait—”

But the door opened and the light clicked on before another full minute past. Sherlock expected to hear a shout from either John or Molly, but there was nothing. He looked inside to find an unoccupied bedroom and a made bed. He glanced around, unsure why he was finding an unoccupied bedroom and a made bed. _What?_ _Where’s Molly?_

“You’re getting weird in your old age. Well, weird _er_.” John shook his head in tired dismay. “I don’t care if you are tired, Sherlock. I’m sleeping in here. You can sleep next to me if you like.”

That got Sherlock’s attention. Those were words he’d never thought to hear the doctor say, especially considering how much he ranted whenever the tabloids implied they were lovers. “Pardon?”

“I’m too knackered to argue with you.” He toed off his shoes, tossed his jacket on the floor, and climbed into the bed. “Just stay on your side of the bed, and I’ll stay on mine.”

“Umm … no, thank you,” Sherlock said. “I think I’ll just … rest on the sofa.”

John grumbled about needing “cuddles with Mary,” but Sherlock ignored this as he shut off the light and closed the door behind him. He rested on the door, trying to figure everything out. Then, he moved. He looked around the flat. Molly was clearly still here. The kitchen table had her things on it. Intent on finding her, he hurried up to the second bedroom.

He shouldn’t have been surprised to find her asleep there, but he was. The dawn light shining in from the window gave him just enough light to see her. Molly was sprawled across the middle of the bed on her stomach, her sleeping face turned towards him in peaceful repose and her brown hair fanned out on the pillow behind her. She was wearing one of her nightgowns. The white, long-sleeved, cotton and lace one that fell to her ankles and made her look like a virginal spinster from the late nineteenth century. He’d pointed that out when she’d worn it during one of the times he’d used her flat as a bolt hole. As he remembered it, she’d claimed it was cozy and stormed off to sleep in the guest bedroom as she always did whenever he came over.

Molly looked nothing like a virginal spinster now. With the duvet kicked to the edge of the bed, the gown had ridden up, giving him an eyeful of lithe legs and a peek at pale blue knickers stretched over her curved backside. His body tightened and all but thrummed at the sight. He gripped the door jamb so he wouldn’t give in to the ferocious longing he had to go to her. This craving was stronger than any drug or cigarette had ever been, and left him overwhelmed. Sherlock wanted to lie next to her, to wake her with kisses, to bury himself in the softness of her welcoming form again and again until he could think no more.

“Distraction,” he hissed. “Get a hold on yourself, man.” Before he could do something stupid, he fled her bedroom and shut the door behind him. Resting against it, he panted with his eyes shut. This was madness. _No other explanation._ He had a case to solve and here he was acting like a horny teenager with his first woman. _No._

There was only one thing to be done. Shoving away from the door, he returned to the lounge. He stopped only to reclaim his coat before taking the stairs down two at a time. It wasn’t until he made it to the cool air outside that any relief came his way. He took a deep breath as he wrapped his coat around himself, feeling some small semblance of sanity returning.

But just as he was calming, something made him look up to the window he knew was hers. Her light had come on. Common sense told him it was nothing more than her getting up to get ready for work, but common sense had no place in the panic that overwhelmed him. He felt trapped, like any moment she was going to come for him. He didn’t trust his actions if he saw her. Not now. Not yet.

So, after failing hail a passing cab, Sherlock Holmes ran from 221B Baker Street.


	26. Control, Panic, And Temptation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Warning: Sexual content ahead!

Sherlock had it all well in hand now. It had taken two packs of cigarettes and the successful solving of three cases before he felt confident about that. When he was once again in control of himself, he wasn’t sure where all the yearning nonsense and resulting alarm had come from. Probably something to do with lack of sleep. It had been days since he’d last rested, after all. Even his mind was susceptible to weakness once he’d reached his limits. Whatever the cause, he knew running was never the answer. It was the primary lesson one learned when one had a brother like Mycroft. No, when dealing with something that provokes fear or panic, the best thing to do was to take control of the situation by facing it head on, finding the chink in its armor, and disposing of it accordingly.

“You’re back.” Molly glanced up from where she sat reading on the sofa as he entered the flat.

As she had only stated the obvious, a response wasn’t warranted. Something about hearing her voice gave him a brief resurgence of the alarm, but he promptly suppressed it. He was in control. Molly Hooper was a simple creature—honest, useful, biddable, hardworking and sometimes boring. Never, ever should she be a cause for alarm. In fact, if his life were a chessboard, he would be the queen and Molly would be nothing more than a pawn awaiting his next command.

So, Sherlock ignored her as he removed his coat and went into his bedroom to put it away. The effects of so many days in the same clothes motivated him into a bath. Once he was refreshed, he had planned to fall into his bed for a long slumber, but his empty stomach reminded him of its priority.

When he went into the lounge, food awaited him. A tall glass of milk and a plate filled with two sandwiches stacked neatly beside a steaming bowl of what looked to be tomato soup had been placed on the side table next to his chair. He looked to Molly, but her face was hidden behind a massive tome entitled _A Game of Thrones._ He smiled to himself. Yep, docile old Molly. Always getting him what was needed even if he didn’t overtly request it. Satisfied with himself, he sat and tucked into the fare like the starving man he was.

It wasn’t until Sherlock was finished that he bothered to look at her again. Her continued silence was odd. He’d expected her to demand to know where he’d been or at the very least, harp at him for details regarding the kidnapping case. He’d been prepared for that. After all, Molly usually liked hearing about his cases. Sherlock had also assumed she’d want some explanation regarding his whereabouts now that she had this new role in his life. He hadn’t talked to her in days, hadn’t even bothered to text. Females, in his experience, didn’t like that. Come to think of it, _John_ didn’t like that. Or if nothing else, Molly would surely want to deconstruct, define, and categorize every element of their last encounter together. Isn’t that what women in relationships did?

But Molly didn’t do any of that. She remained focused on her book as if she hadn’t a care in the world, as if he weren’t even there. In fact, had she not spoken to him when he first arrived and obviously prepared the dinner for him, it might be easy to assume she wasn’t aware of his presence at all. _Bizarre._ As much as his body was begging for rest, the curiosity Sherlock had behind Molly’s behavior kept him rooted to his seat.

Was she angry? He knew people’s response to anger usually involved the silent treatment. It was a tactic John had employed on him many times with limited success. Even Mrs. Hudson and Molly had done it to him when he’d gotten too exasperated at them and made some cutting remark. But as he hadn’t done any such thing to her recently, Sherlock couldn’t presume why he should apologize.

He observed her carefully, trying to denote further signs of held-in fury. If Molly planned to tear into him, he wanted to be prepared. Honestly, he welcomed her anger. It would feel good to vent some of the frustration he felt at her, where it belonged. He hated that she had brought about such weakness in him. Little Molly Hooper? _Ridiculous._

But no matter how diligently he searched, there were no signs to be found. Molly was relaxed in her posture, a light smile on her face as if she were enjoying her book. She was leaning back against the sofa with a fluffy pink and white throw decorated with pictures of kittens tucked around her folded legs and lower torso. She wore a thin white robe with lace etched along the long sleeves and whimsical, baby pink ribbons tied neatly at her wrists. The high lace collar of the robe had a broader pink ribbon tied in an artful bow about her neck. The collar covered her neck and brushed the edges of her jaw. Except for her hands and face, every inch of Molly was covered. Maiden, elderly aunts the world over would have approved of such a garment.

Which is why the wave of arousal that hit him took him somewhat by surprise. He didn’t panic this time. He was through with panic. It got him nowhere. Molly Hooper was not going to frighten him away from his own flat—especially not by simply wearing a nightgown that Queen Victoria had probably once owned a version of. He was in control, not her with those seemingly nonstop attempts to tempt him.

Except, she wasn’t trying to tempt him. Her face was free of makeup, and her hair was piled atop her head in some kind of muddled knot. Hardly the guise of woman on the prowl. More to the point, she seemed completely oblivious of his presence. This made him a little less curious and a lot more frustrated.

Molly found him attractive. Sherlock knew this. His eyes, his dark features and pale, angular face, his height, his fit body, his neck and even the curls in his hair. She liked them all. On more than one occasion, he’d conducted little experiments. In addition to reacting to certain shirts he wore, she seemed to prefer when his hair either in wild disarray or slicked back from his head. When he took the time to conform his locks into some semblance of mild order, her reactions lessened. Her responses had become muted when he’d first returned to London, leading him to assume her feelings for him had irrevocably ceased. But he’d noticed the signs again at John’s wedding when she saw him enter the church to take his place beside the bridegroom. At the time, he’d dismissed it as nothing more than a fleeting effect. Many women— _and some men_ —found him attractive when he was formally attired. He cut quite the dashing figure. It was a mere consequence of the biology that had formed him thus, a consequence he’d found useful on more than one occasion. Now, dressed as he was in a grey silk pyjama bottoms topped with a close-fitting, white t-shirt with his hair slicked back from his bath, he knew she should be deeply aroused.

At the moment, however, the only thing that had garnered the slightest bit of interest in her was that damn book. His frustration grew, pushing him to speak. “What is that you’re reading? More improbable zombie nonsense?”

“No.” Her eyes remained on the page. “It’s called _A Game of Thrones_. It’s the first book in a series called _A Song of Ice and Fire_.” She flipped a page. “That reminds me. I finished the _Zombie Samurai_ trilogy. I left the last novel on the kitchen table if you’d like to read it.”

“Why would I want to do that?” He shot back.

Molly didn’t take the bait he’d so conveniently offered. She merely shrugged. “Up to you.”

The frustration increased. “What’s this _Game of Thrones_ about?” he asked, taking in various details from the cover to make his deduction. “A comprehensive history of the English crown? If you wish to delve into something so mind-numbingly dull, you can always read John’s blog.”

“John’s blogs aren’t boring. They’re about you. Well, your adventures together.”

It was his turn to shrug. “He can make anything dull. He only writes about some of the cases—often leaving out the best ones due to some fit of pique. Ridiculous! Plus, his writing is atrocious. It’s a wonder anyone endeavors to read it.”

But just when he thought he had at last found a way to get her annoyed, she switched up on him.

“Well, this book is anything but boring. While the author has indeed been influenced by the chronicles of medieval royal politics both within this country and those in Europe, this story is complete fiction. He has even created his own version of Earth which experiences seasons differently than we do. For example, their summers or winters can last decades without abatement.”

He found himself unwillingly intrigued. “And what is the plot?”

“It’s too complicated to quickly explain. There are a lot of characters and a surplus of backstory surrounding those characters and their families which must be absorbed before you can truly understand and appreciate what is going on.”

“Sounds too tedious and needlessly complicated to be enjoyable. I wonder why you would bother to waste your time.”

She shrugged again. “Taking the time and patience to truly understand that which is overly complicated and superficially tedious can prove highly rewarding in the long run.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Name one example of that ever proving true.”

“You.”

He had her attention now. She was looking right at him. If they’d been playing chess, she would have shouted “Check!” after a move like that.

Once again, Sherlock found himself aroused by Molly. Only this time, it had nothing to do with the overly prim outfit she was wearing. It was her wit. It also brought his frustration to dizzying heights. He straightened in his chair, angling towards her. Fisting one hand, he rested his chin on it as he inclined forward and, in blatant challenge, said, “You find _me_ tedious?”

She shook her head and looked away. Something about hitting her with the full force of his attention made her do that. It had been a while since it had worked on her, and but he used the method to its fullest effect. He wanted her to squirm. It would be good for her to remember who held the power here, not only in their relationship, but in everything. Sherlock had never considered himself a control freak—No, that was Mycroft’s area—but when it came to these last few days, he realized having control at all times was the only way for this _thing_ with Molly to work. It was only those times when he allowed his control to relax that she seeped in—No, that the _panic_ seeped it. Molly Hooper would _never_ seep into anything where he was concerned.

“Did you solve the case?” she murmured, fingering the sleeve of her robe.

“Yes.”

“And?”

She didn’t look at him, but the tinge of frustration he heard in her tone made him smile. At least he wasn’t the only one feeling that. “And it was the boy’s tutor. Older woman in her thirties. She stopped tutoring him weeks ago; so I missed her in my initial round of interviews. No one thought to tell me about her until I hacked into his emails. He was careful to delete most of his correspondence with her, but not _all_.”

Her gaze shot up. “Why—”

Anticipating her question, he said, “The boy was in on it. She’d taken him as her lover. The scheme, of course, was to get the ransom money and run away together.”

“But the body parts—”

“Her idea. He went along with it because he _loved_ her.” Sherlock shook his head in disgust. “She told him it would demonstrate his commitment to their relationship. As she planned to murder him the second the money was in her hands, he would have done better to demand a few demonstrations of _her_ affections first.

“I found them, of course. It was simple work once I realized who was behind it. I’m sure John will have the full details blogged by week’s end—even though he missed the big finale by going to _work_.” He rolled his eyes. “In any case, I also uncovered a theft by the upstairs maid. Lestrade and the parents were quite thrilled by my performance. As the father is a high political official, there was even a threat of having me knighted. Until,” he could help the grin that came to his lips, “I informed the wife that her husband was cheating on her with her brother. I was invited to leave then.”

Molly gave a snort of humor and smiled. He looked at her, intensely. The longer he looked, the sooner all signs of mirth left her features. Then, just as he was about to command her to come to him, she moved. At first, he was startled, but then he realized she wasn’t coming to him at all.

She put down her book, removed the throw, and got to her feet. When she stood, he got a flash of ankle before the gown and robe fell to her feet, so long they even covered her bare toes. He shot a peek at her, trying to discern if she’d done this to purposefully entice him. But she didn’t even glance his way.

As passed him, she moved to take his dirty dishes. He caught her hand, looking up at her as she stilled. “Running away?”

“From what?” she asked.

The blush was still there, but that was the only sign that she was at all affected. Her brown eyes met his gaze and held it. Slowly, he brushed the lace back until her wrist was revealed. Then, he brought it up to his mouth, running the delicate skin back and forth over his lower lip. As expected, the light fragrance of lavender—something he was beginning to associate solely with her—was there. His tongue came out, delivering a quick lick.

Molly shivered. He smiled as he felt her pulse scatter and pick up. Blinking a few times, she seemed to come back to herself. As his hold on her was gentle at best, she easily slipped from it, taking the dishes and heading into the kitchen. “Do you want anything else?”

Sherlock didn’t respond right away. Instead, he waited until she returned to the lounge and resumed her position on the sofa, her feet and ankles tucked back under her and hidden from his view by the throw. He was beginning to hate that blanket. Sherlock got to his feet and in one swift movement, claimed the space next to her. He threw his arm on the back of the sofa behind her and leaned in next to her, deliberately invading every ounce of her personal space he could. Running his nose along her collar, he inhaled. The lavender smell was deeper here, making him heady. Molly stiffened, telling him he wasn’t the only one affected.

“Ask me again,” he hoarsely whispered.

“Ask you what?” Her fingers gripped the book in her lap tightly.

His hand reached over to take the book, pushing it away from her grasp and onto the floor, where it landed with a heavy _thump_. “Ask me if I want anything else.”

She inhaled, her breath wobbly and then said the last thing he was expecting, “When was the last time you slept?”

Sherlock pulled back at that. “What does it matter?”

She turned to look at him, a frown tugging at her lips. “I mean it, Sherlock. When was the last time you had adequate rest?”

Was she implying something by asking him this? Did she not want him as he did her? The signs indicated otherwise, but something in her tone said this was the case. He would need to do further tests, though, to be sure. “What day is it?”

“Monday evening.”

“I last slept on Friday night. I’ll be fine.” He moved in again, reaching for the pink bow tied around her throat. He tugged it free. She didn’t stop him. No, Molly just sat there as he pulled the collar of the robe away, baring her throat.

She gave a small sigh. “You’re too tired for this. You should rest. You have dark circles under your eyes.”

Sherlock wasn’t going to be denied. He was in charge here. “There’s no such thing as too tired for this.” He leaned in, pressing kisses as he went. She shuddered and moved to give him better access. He smiled to himself and continued his exploration. His hand gently cradled her head as he moved down her neck and over her clavicle, pushing away cotton and lace as he went.

“You wore this gown to bed last night, Molly.”

She jumped away from him then, edging closer to the other side of the sofa. Her hands trembling as she tried to pull her robe back around her. “And how do you know that?”

Sherlock slipped his hands under the large throw covering her lower body. He shoved it into the floor and the heat she’d been stockpiling underneath hit him. Like the predator cornering prey, he closed in on her, taking up all the space she’d put between them. “How do I know everything? For example, I know it’s been two days since I had you. I know you want me as badly as I do you. I know you showered before I got here, hoping I’d be home tonight. I know you thought of me while you bathed, while you put on your lotion, while you took your birth control pill. I know you’ve thought of this every moment since I’ve been away, wondering if it was just a dream or a mistake or if I’d ever touch you again. I know if I don’t have you soon I’m going to explode with wanting you.”

Her breathing grew shaky once more, giving him the confidence to lean in until his face was mere inches away from hers. “Are you going to deny me, Molly?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He kissed her then. She returned the kiss wholeheartedly, wrapping both arms around his neck. Sherlock groaned, pulling her onto his lap. She came willingly, straddling him. His hands found her calves and marveling in the heat he felt in her silky limbs, he stroked up and over her knees. Her robe and gown parted like a sea of milk, revealing more feminine flesh for his touch. Molly’s hands were in his hair, tugging on the strands impatiently as she kissed him. She ground down on him, rubbing herself delightfully against his hardening penis.

Sherlock moved aside the ribbons from the collar of her robe, jerking the garment off her and tossing it away. Only the thin material of the gown stood between him and what he sought. He rooted under the hem of her dress, moved up until he was cupping her bare breasts. _Jesus, she’s not wearing a bra._ He’d known she wasn’t, but feeling the proof in his hands made him want to send appreciation to a deity he’d didn’t believe in. 

He caressed her breasts, growing more frustrated by the gown which kept him from taking them into his mouth. The frock was so tight around her arms and shoulders, he knew he couldn’t take it off as rapidly as he had the robe. He broke the kiss with Molly and shifted, grabbing hold of her hips. With a grunt, he stood, taking her with him.

Molly let out a little squeal and grasped his shoulders and wrapped her legs around his waist. With a slight wobble and some adjustment, he balanced her form in his grip and moved towards his bedroom. Molly was a sturdy woman, and fatigue had drained quite a bit of his strength. But Sherlock was determined. All too soon, he laid her across his bed. Then, he knelt down over her, his hands going to the long row of petite, pearl buttons running down the gown. His fingers fumbled, trying to push the pearls through the holes. They didn’t go easily. When he only managed to get two undone in the range of several minutes, he looked down at her and said, “How much do you like this thing you’re wearing?”

She grinned up at her, her hands playing with the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. “Why?”

 _Now she tries to entice me?_ “Because I’m three seconds from ripping it off you, woman.”

"It was my mother's."

He groaned, knowing how much she loved both of her deceased parents, and made do with shoving the nightgown that had been the source of so much torture up to gather about her neck. Her breasts thrust up at him. _Hello, old friends._ He leaned over and took one in his mouth. Molly moaned and jerked up against him. After taking his fill of one breast, he moved on to the other as his hands explored the waistband of her white cotton knickers. With these, he met no resistance as he yanked them down her hips and off.

The second she was free, Molly opened her legs to him. The wetness of her core glistened in the overhead light, demonstrating how much she’d desired him all along. Had this all been some seductive game to her? Some way to increase his fervor? If so, it had worked. He was almost blind in his need for her. Sherlock sank between her thighs gratefully. The craving he’d experienced before was a mere shadow of what he felt now. He freed himself from his trousers and without preamble, thrust into her welcoming heat.

Her legs wrapped around his hips as he rocked against her again and again. Molly pulled him down, kissing him, holding him, urging him, a willing tool ready for his use. But it wasn’t good enough. Sherlock wanted more. He wanted her bowing against him, straining in search of her own gratification, but his need was too great and he’d fought against it for too long. With a few valiant thrusts, the pleasure rushed upon him and he collapsed onto her in knackered ecstasy. He wanted to move, but his remaining strength was depleted. Molly didn’t seem to mind the weight. Instead, she pressed kisses against his sweaty temple, caressed his shoulders, and murmured nonsensical praise in his ear. All were more comforting than he would ever admit.

Finally, he mustered a last bit of strength, rolled from her, and collapsed on the other side of the bed. It didn’t matter that he was still half dressed, his head wasn’t on a pillow, or that he wasn’t lying in his usual position. Sherlock knew he’d be unable to move again until after several hours of rest.

Molly, however, did not suffer this problem.

It took every ounce of concentration he had to open one eye when he felt her leave the bed. He wanted to call to her, to find out where she thought she was going, but he couldn’t.

She returned moments later with her throw. This she tossed over him, taking the time to make sure his feet were covered. As it was able to cover his tall form, he realized the blanket was bigger than he’d assumed it was. Molly then continued on, moving his head and shoving a pillow under it. Finally, with a tender kiss pressed against his forehead, she wished him pleasant rest and left him. She even switched off the lights and shut the door behind her.

Exhaustion held him prisoner. But with the last bit of brainpower he had, Sherlock Holmes grunted into his pillow as the truth hit him. If there was control to be wielded in his relationship with Molly Hooper, it was she who’d exert it. He was and would always be at her mercy. If their relationship were a chessboard, she was the queen and he was nothing more than a knight in her service.

Somehow, even as he was drifting off, this knowledge did not cause him panic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is the last time I will warn about the coming mature content. I don’t like to ruin the surprise with spoilers, and it feels like that’s what I am doing. So, if you don’t like that, skim those parts and move on because I can promise that there won’t just be chapters devoted to sex without furthering the plot. In fact, you will never know when either sex or plot is going to happen from here on out. Happy reading!


	27. There's Something About Mary

"Molly, there you are!"

With a lurch of shock, the specialist registrar shot up from the specimens she was cataloguing. All morning, she'd been expecting Sherlock to come bursting in on her. He hadn't seemed terribly pleased that she'd put him to bed last night. She'd known it wouldn't take him long to figure out he'd been slightly manipulated to get there. But as he'd been visibly knackered and she was afraid of what he might say with the mood he was in, she'd had little choice in the matter. Things were fragile between them, and they needed to talk. This was true. But not with him in that shape.

She'd spent two nerve-wracking hours in the mortuary, and Sherlock never made an appearance. Whether that was in some way correlated to the current depth of his anger, she didn't know. Right now, she didn't want to even think about it. As she was aware she'd have to deal with him when she returned to the flat, Molly forced him out of her mind and got to work.

Having Mary Watson show up in the morgue, however, was quite unexpected.

"H-h-hello," Molly returned, removing her latex gloves and walking over to greet the blonde. "Is there a problem with John or Sherlock?"

"No, they're fine. Just thought I'd pop in for a visit."

"If you'd let me know you were coming, I could've gone out to meet you."

Mary waved off this notion, peering around with some interest. "Nice place you have here. Very … _quiet_."

"Thanks." Molly was well aware that her workplace was the type most people ran from. "Quiet" was actually a polite adjective to use. Still, one thing was bothering her. "How did you get past security?"

Sherlock was the only one who'd been able to successfully do that, and that usually involved a fair amount of subterfuge. Now, of course, he didn't need to bother as he had full access.

"There wasn't anyone at the desk; so I just walked through." Mary shrugged as she kept looking around. Then, her curiosity apparently sated, she turned on Molly with a beguiling smile. "You know, I've been thinking. A woman's life needs a little variety beyond her husband and child—especially when she has a husband who likes to chase down murderers with London's only consulting detective. I used to have more friends than I could count, but now Janine has moved out of the city, Teresa's focused on a promotion at her job, and all of my male friends are suddenly too busy to get together."

Mary frowned as she said this, tapping a finger against her lower lip as if something had just occurred to her. "It's very peculiar. They started getting busy right about the time we were finalizing plans for the wedding … I wonder …" She broke off when she noticed Molly watching her. With a quick shake of her head, the smile returned. "Well, never mind that. I figured since you're living with Sherlock—which I hope means we'll be seeing each other more often—and you're my daughter's favorite aunt—"

"What about John's sister?"

"Oh, that one's got too many issues to be anyone's favorite anything," Mary said. "In any case, I hoped you and I might spend some time together and get better acquainted. Who knows? We might become best friends!"

Everything slowed down as Molly gaped at Mary. Never in her life had anyone ever come up to her and suggested such a thing. Her first reflex was to look behind her because surely Mary must have been talking to someone else. Even in primary school when all the other girls were coupling up and declaring their undying friendship forever devotions, Molly had always been the one deemed too quiet, too boyish and interested in the wrong things, or too "weird" to be bothered with. The first few times she'd faced such rejection, she'd been devastated. But always a resilient sort, Molly didn't let such notions bother her for long. After all, the boys weren't nearly as fastidious when it came to choosing a mate to play with. As long as she could run and climb trees with the best of them, didn't cry when she got dirty, and didn't try to talk their ears off about "girl nonsense," they seemed to enjoy her company. In fact, as she could do many of the "boy" things better than they could, they frequently sought her out to teach them.

As she grew, she still observed the girls, fascinated and yearning for the intimacies and secrets which only came from feminine companionship. Trying on makeup, new hair styles, and fancy clothes; talking nonstop about boys and celebrity infatuations; overdosing on crisps and ice cream; and all night pyjama parties were all things she'd ached to experience. But the older she got, the further away those girls and those dreams seemed to get until Molly just stopped trying to bridge the gap. She was different. And as much as they couldn't seem to accept her for how she was, she liked herself just fine. Her friends—all guys—liked her as well. In fact, it was from these guys that she learned as much as she knew about the opposite sex. More so, she was sure, than most women knew.

When she met Meena in uni was when she'd gotten her first experiences in this area. It had been wonderful. Even all these many years later, Meena was still the only real female friend she had. Unless, that is, one counted Mrs. Hudson or the nurse on the third floor who sometimes chatted her up about weekend plans whenever they happened to meet at the vending machine.

It wasn't until Molly noticed Mary's mouth was moving that she realized John's wife was still talking. _Oh, shit._

"—you wanted to join me for a bite. There's a place not too far from here which I'm told has the best filet around. You up for it?"

If Mary noticed Molly's mind had wandered, she didn't let on. The blonde's smile never wavered, but the way she looked at Molly was so piercing, so intrusive that it was reminiscent of Sherlock. It immediately put Molly on guard, which was ridiculous. _What doesn't remind you of him these days?_ _Calm down. Don't ruin this._

Flashing a return smile, Molly said, "Uh, sure. That sounds loads better than the sandwich, Quavers, and yogurt I brought with me." _She doesn't care about your stupid lunch. Just get on with it already!_ "Let me just retrieve my things from my office. Do you want to meet me out front?"

_No, idiot, she wants to remain in a cold room full of corpses._

"Absolutely," Mary said.

"Umm … Good."

_Really? That's all you can think to say?_

Mary, however, didn't seem to mind. She simply stood there patiently smiling until Molly remembered she needed to actually move to go to her office and shot off with a blurted goodbye. Ten minutes later, Molly met her out by the security desk, which was populated by the regular guard, Randy and a newer guy she'd not met before. Something about the new man reminded her of the detail Mycroft had following her at all times because of Moriarty. She realized with all of the things going on with Sherlock, she hadn't given the people following her much thought. Molly waved at Randy as she passed and decided to go through a list of dos and don'ts for lunch in her head as she followed her new friend out of St. Bart's.

_Do let her do most of the talking. Women like to do most of the talking._

_If the conversation lulls, do ask lots of questions about her so she can do most of the talking._

_Don't talk about the morgue, dead bodies or the incredibly interesting tumor you found in Mr. Peters' liver—this especially goes for what you found_ inside _the tumor. (Save that for Sherlock when you get home. You may need a distraction if he's too angry.)_

_Do keep your answers to any questions she asks brief and concise. You don't want her thinking you're one of those people who make everything about themselves._

_Do try to be funny and kind, and for God's sake, mind your manners!_

Soon, the two were safely ensconced at the restaurant called The Cod Swallop. It was a bit early for lunch; so the restaurant wasn't as full as it might have otherwise been. Mary declined the first table they were shown, which was in the front of some large windows. As Molly had never seen anyone refuse a table before, she meekly followed along to the one Mary chose in a secluded corner marked by expensive wood paneling on two sides. When Molly went to take a seat which would have put her facing the diners, Mary asked her to switch. "You don't mind, do you? I like to look around."

Molly happily consented. Her eyes caught briefly on the gilt-framed portrait hanging above Mary's head. A blonde woman with long, wavy hair stared into a mirror. She was buxom and beautiful in a renaissance type of way, but her reflection showed another woman entirely. This one plain and somber and afraid.

 _Pay attention to your companion, not the artwork, you ninny_. The waiter approached the table, bearing water glasses and menus. As they both perused the list of selections, the hush at the table bothered Molly so she asked, "Where's little Abby today?"

"I got a sitter for her."

"Oh, that's nice."

Another awkward silence followed. It felt so loud to Molly that words on the menu seemed to swim before her eyes. "Are you still breastfeeding?" The second the question came out of her mouth, she wanted to recall it. _Is it appropriate to ask things like that?_

Mary didn't seem bothered. Exhaling happily, she put down her menu and said, "Yes, but I also give her bottled breast milk. It gives me a break and allows me to be away from her if I need a sitter. Besides, if I express the milk into a bottle, John gets the chance to feed her as well. He adores that."

"She's a beautiful baby," Molly murmured.

"Thank you, but as she looks more like her willfully handsome father, I can take no credit. I'm just glad she didn't get his penchant for bristly mustaches."

"He shaved that off ages ago." Molly giggled.

Mary rolled her eyes. "Only because the first wife came back. Sherlock apparently likes his doctors clean-shaven, or so John claims Sherlock said one time, but only after I tortured the information out of him."

Molly's grin continued until it occurred to her that _she_ was one of Sherlock's doctors. _Hmm …_

"What?" the older woman asked, picking up on something.

"Nothing. So how are things? Are you looking forward to returning to work? I know I'd be climbing the walls by now if I were you."

"Yes, but you love your job, don't you?"

"Absolutely. Nothing like a fresh corpse to get my day started!" Molly considered how that must sound to someone like Mary and squeaked in alarm. "Oh God! I mean, I … don't mean to imply that I like that people have to die in order for me to do my job, but—"

Mary laughed. "It's fine, Molly. I understood what you meant. I greatly admire the passion and dedication you have for your profession. I think few people truly have that anymore."

"Pathology has long been an area of interest for me," Molly said. "Of course, I have a lot of work and research to complete before I can get to the level I want to be and there's a fellowship I was considering applying for because …" _Am I talking too much? It feels like I'm talking too much_. "I mean … Thank you."

An awkward pause followed this. Mary just looked at her, calmly and patiently, as if she were fascinated by anything Molly wanted to share. It was such a strange situation to find herself in that it left her uncomfortable. Intent on reestablishing to status quo, she blurted, "So do you like _your_ job?"

"As I get to work with my husband, yes. But it has its moments of monotony, believe me." Mary gazed out at the slowly filling restaurant before looking back. "I will miss my sweet bobbin after I go back, but I am, as you said, climbing the walls. Every item of clothing I own now smells like baby vomit, and I feel like I haven't had a truly adult conversation in weeks."

"Well, I'm proud to be your first adult conversation," Molly said. "If you like, I'd be happy to babysit if you need some time for yourself."

Mary's smile twisted into something like a smirk, but Molly couldn't be sure. It also looked a bit like a frown, making Molly wonder if her new friend was worried about Sherlock's thoughts on them babysitting again.

"Don't worry about Sherlock. He did fine last time Abby was there. Even sang and danced with her."

Mary's eyes widened. "Really? I'd pay big money to have seen the great detective do that."

"It was lovely."

"What did he sing? Probably hummed Beethoven or Bach. He's too posh for his own good."

"Elton John, actually. 'Crocodile Rock.'"

Mary laughed. "Please tell me you recorded that."

"Of course not. Sherlock would have been mortified. I probably shouldn't have even told you he did it in the first place."

"Oh, please! You can always tell me anything. We're girlfriends now, aren't we?"

Molly smiled wider, relaxing. "Of course."

"Good, then as your friend, let me tell you not to waste golden opportunities when they come knocking. Record it next time, girl," Mary ordered. "We'll post it to the internet and make millions!"

They both laughed heartily at that. The waiter came over to take their orders, making a big push on the house wine which he claimed was "second to none." Both women declined. Mary ordered the filet while Molly settled on a pasta Bolognese.

Pleasant conversation continued until Molly had exhausted all the questions she had which would be considered polite. At a loss of what to say, she snatched one of the fresh-baked rolls the waiter had dropped off in a wire bread basket. Breaking it open and inhaling the deliciously yeasty smell, she slathered on a fair amount of butter.

"I appreciate a woman who isn't afraid to eat," Mary said, grabbing a roll for herself.

Molly halted her actions, wondering if she was doing something wrong. But as Mary had buttered her own roll and was even now devouring it with some gusto, she guessed not. She took a bite, enjoying the creamy, salty flavor that always accompanied real butter.

"So how are things going with you and Sherlock?"

Licking the excess butter from her lip, Molly said, "Fine."

"I'm surprised he's not driving you bonkers. John said living with him is akin to living in a lunatic asylum at times. Apparently, Sherlock liked to leave body parts all over the place, did secret experiments on John, and got so bored one time he shot up the wall."

"I make Sherlock keep the body parts in a marked bin in the fridge. If he doesn't return them there when he's done, I don't give him any new ones. He tried to experiment on me by putting something in my drink once, but I thankfully noticed before it was consumed. After I drugged his tea in retaliation, we agreed he wouldn't do that again. And as John took his gun with him when he moved out, Sherlock can't shoot anything." Molly winked. "So, it's not that bad you see."

Mary guffawed, clapping her hands together in glee. "Good for you, Molly Hooper. I always knew you weren't the carpet John seems to think you are."

Molly was bewildered and slightly offended. "John thinks I'm a carpet?"

"He thinks you're too lenient with Sherlock, that you allow him to get away with murder and don't stand up for yourself enough. I told him he's wrong. There's more to your relationship with Sherlock than meets the eye. It was obvious the day I saw you slap him. No carpet of a woman would have done that."

"A-a-actually, I shouldn't have done that."

"Why not? He deserved it. You certainly got his attention more than John did."

"I … I just shouldn't have done it." _Not in front of everyone, at least._ Molly's only regret had been the public nature of it. She'd never wanted to humiliate Sherlock by calling him out in front of his friends like that, but he'd been so out of control, so disconnected she hadn't been able to stop herself.

Mary patted her hand. "It all worked out in the end. You and John got him back where he needed to be. You two are what keeps that man in line. Without you, he'd be lost. In fact, I've long suspected Sherlock is secretly in love with you."

The idea of that was laughable, but Molly kept silent. Instead, she looked down at her hands, surprised to see she'd unwittingly shredded her half-eaten roll. There were crumbs everywhere, and her fingers were now oily with smears of butter.

Cleaning up the mess, Molly decided to regain control of the conversation quickly. _Change the subject. Something innocuous._ Wiping her fingers on her napkin, she snagged another roll, pasting a quick smile on her face. "Nice weather today, isn't it?"

"Lovely," Mary said. "So how long have you and Sherlock been sleeping together?"

Molly dropped the roll. "P-p-pardon?"

"Sleeping together? As in having sex? How long have you and Sherlock been going at it?"

Molly's brain stalled. _How could she know that? There's no way she can know that. Oh my God, she knows that! Calm down. There is no way she knows. She's fishing. That's all._ Then, realizing that not having a response was the same as agreeing, she swiftly said, "We're not."

Mary cocked her head and narrowed her eyes, staring at her long and hard.

Molly met her stare, closing down every bit of emotion she had to keep her expression blank. "Sherlock and I are friends. That's all."

Mary daintily wiped her mouth on her napkin. Then, she leaned forward. "You sure about that?"

"Yes."

The waiter returned with their entrees. Mary's dish of glazed filet with piped potatoes and braised asparagus was steaming as was Molly's bright red Bolognese topped with chopped, green parsley. But neither woman bothered to look down. Instead, their staring match continued even as the waiter started in again on the wonders of the house wine.

Finally, Mary straightened and dismissed the waiter, laying her napkin in her lap with great care. When she looked up at Molly, she smiled. "Sherlock was sleeping with a pink and white kitty blanket this morning. As immature as he can be at times, I can't imagine that's his."

"I covered him when he fell asleep last night. That's all."

"Is it?"

Molly nodded, forcing herself to focus on her food. She picked up her fork, intent on pretending to be as normal as possible.

"You're a very good liar, you know."

Mary had her attention with that one. "Excuse me?"

"Don't worry. It's a compliment I'm giving you. If I didn't know for a fact that you were lying, you would have fooled me. Most people can't fool me. Even Sherlock can't."

Molly almost dropped her fork in amazement, but managed to hold onto it. "How do you know I'm lying? I mean, why would I lie? Sherlock and I aren't sleeping together. It ridiculous. I'm his pathologist. That's all."

"What I find fascinating is that you immediately moved to defend the fact that he was sleeping with your blanket when you should have been asking how I knew he was using it in the first place."

A cold wave of fear washed over Molly. Mary had made an excellent point. _How could you be so stupid?_ "How did you know about the blanket?"

Mary sliced into her filet, taking a bite before she answered. "Guess who I got as a sitter?"

Molly did drop her fork that time. "Sherlock? You got Sherlock to babysit Abby _by himself_? Are you mad?"

With a reckless grin, Mary shrugged. "It's fine. He kept my husband away the whole weekend. I figured he owed me."

"But … but … but …"

"You said yourself he was good with her last time. He even sang and danced."

"But—"

"Mrs. Hudson was put on alert. Don't worry. I told her to give him ten minutes and then check on them. No doubt, Abby is presently in the landlady's kitchen having her bottle warmed and being loved within an inch of her life. Otherwise, my mobile would have gone off by now."

The image of how it must have looked when Mary got inside the flat sprang to Molly's mind. It would have been quiet. Sherlock, after not sleeping for several days, could easily slumber for sixteen hours or more. That would certainly explain why he hadn't made it down to the morgue. With Sherlock's bedroom door shut—something that never happened when he was up and about—it would have been easy to figure out where he was.

 _Thank God I got my robe off the floor of the lounge last night. Lord knows what she'd of made of that._ "You actually went into Sherlock's bedroom?"

"So?"

"That's a private area."

"He should have thought about that before he came bursting into mine."

Molly closed her eyes, not even wanting to know what that meant. She was sure she could fill in the blanks. If Sherlock needed John, he wouldn't have let a little thing like privacy or a closed bedroom door stop him. She took a deep breath, straightening her shoulders. This was a mess, to be sure. But at the end of the day, the only evidence Mary had that anything was going on was circumstantial at best. As Molly knew she and Sherlock still had many things to work through, announcing their new relationship to their circle of friends was not going to happen for a while yet. Upon seeing him wrapped in the blanket, Mary would have brought her suspicions up to Sherlock. He had obviously found a way to circumvent those suspicions without lying. Otherwise, Mary would have already said Sherlock admitted to it. Since he'd gotten around Mary, Molly knew she could as well.

Opening her eyes, she looked at her dining companion. "Sherlock and I are flatmates and friends. That is all."

Mary giggled like a schoolgirl. "You really are good at that. It's no wonder Sherlock likes you so. You have many hidden depths and talents." She shook her head, taking another bite of her lunch. "I've always said it's the quiet ones you have to look out for."

"I'm not lying."

"Aren't you?" Mary's eyebrow quirked defiantly.

"You found him sleeping with my blanket, a blanket I freely admitted to covering him with because he fell asleep atop his covers after he came in last night."

"You went into his bedroom? That's a _private area_."

"I was worried about him. That's all."

"Uh huh," Mary said, mockingly.

"Did you find him naked?"

"What?"

That knocked the grin off her face. Molly bit her lip to stop her own smile. "Well?" she asked. "Did you?"

"No. He was in pyjamas."

"So," Molly said, swirling her pasta round and round with her fork. "You found a sleeping man in his own bed fully clothed in his pyjamas wrapped in my blanket and _that_ is your sole piece of evidence for supposing that we are having sex?" She brought a fork full of pasta to her mouth. "Hardly conclusive, is it?"

Mary gazed down at her own plate. Molly felt a well of triumph. But a few seconds later, John's wife glanced up, a beaming grin on her face. "Oh, Molly, you are a treasure. You and I are going to be the best of friends. I just know it."

Molly frowned, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. _I just won, didn't I?_ "Umm … OK. Sure. Can we leave off this topic once and for all then?"

"Absolutely," Mary agreed, reaching for another roll. She broke open the bread and set about spreading on butter. "Of course, we'll need to discuss the pair of knickers I saw on Sherlock's dresser first. They were hanging off the end … like someone _tossed_ them there in the heat of the moment. Pretty damning evidence, I must say."

 _Shit! I knew I missed something._ "You can't assume those are mine."

"Can't I?"

"Sherlock had a girlfriend before I moved in. One of your friends. Janine. Did you forget?" Molly asked, proud of herself for thinking so fast on her feet.

Mary seemed to contemplate this a moment. She took her time applying the butter, seeming intent on making sure each crevice of bread was covered before she responded. Finally, she said, "It's been months and months since those two went out. And even if I could assume that Mrs. Hudson wouldn't have cleaned in all that time—"

"She's not his housekeeper."

Mary chuckled. "Indeed. But even if Mrs. Hudson never cleaned Sherlock's room, I know for a fact those knickers don't belong to Janine. Too many shopping trips together, I'm afraid. White cotton is not something she's ever going to be seen in—especially around Sherlock. No, Janine likes her unmentionables to be colorful, fancy, and the scantier the better." She leaned over the table and whispered, "But you know who _would_ wear sensible, cotton pants like that?"

Instead of answering, Molly signaled the waiter back over. "You know, I think I will try a bottle of the house wine after all."


	28. A Teller Of Tales And Tells

It took two stout glasses of wine before Molly was willing to meet the gaze of her dining companion. When she finally did so, it was with thinly-veiled suspicion. _What’s she really after here_? Mary’s behavior once more reminded Molly of Sherlock like an ominous sense of _déjà vu_ , but she didn’t ignore the feeling this time.

Putting down her wine glass, Molly pushed her plate of food away and dropped her hands into her lap. “Is that why you asked me to lunch?”

“To find out about you and Sherlock, you mean? No,” Mary replied.

Molly eyed the blonde intently. Fine lines creased her eyes and bracketed her mouth, implying this was a woman who liked to laugh. A matching bit of mirth sparkled in her blue eyes. _Is this all some kind of joke to her?_

As if she heard this thought, Mary scoffed. “Come on, Molly. It’s not _that_ bad I found out, is it?”

“Depends on what you plan to do with the information.”

“ _Do with the information_? Do you think I have some sort of blackmail scheme in mind?" Mary slumped, defeated, in her chair, peering at Molly with what appeared to be sincerity tinged with a bit of hurt feelings. "You believe me capable of that? Really?"

Personally, Molly wasn’t buying the innocent act for a second. “I don’t know. You definitely didn’t look me up for just an affable lunch.”

“Molly, I meant everything I said earlier about us being friends. Why else would I make you my daughter’s aunt? I’m sorry I haven’t invited you out before now but I was busy giving birth, recovering, and taking care of an infant. This is the first chance I’ve had to do anything else. I didn’t expect to discover what I did when I popped in on Sherlock this morning. I only came ’round to annoy him. I was dying from boredom at home and relished a chance to get out."

Yet _another_ reminder of Sherlock.

When Molly refused to soften her wary stance, Mary added, "Trust me, no one was more shocked to find Sherlock had taken you as a lover.” She fairly glowed with the glee. “Or more pleased.”

Molly wanted to believe her, but she wasn’t sure if that was because she didn't want to hold a grudge or because the lonely child inside her desperately wanted to be accepted into the “girls club.” Yet, as this was John’s wife, John was Sherlock’s best friend and partner, and Molly was living (and in a relationship) with Sherlock, Molly knew she needed to find some kind of middle ground with Mary Watson and quickly. “You can’t tell John.”

Elbows planted on the table, Mary leaned forward excitedly. “Does that mean there is indeed _something_ to tell John?”

Molly grimaced and took another swallow of wine. “You know there is.”

Mary clapped. She actually clapped. Since Molly wasn’t sure if the applause was because Mary had won this little sparring match or because she was weirdly thrilled Sherlock and Molly were shagging, she frowned in return.

“Don’t be such a grouse,” Mary chided. “I know it’s not my business, and I unfairly backed you into a corner. But I genuinely adore you, and Sherlock is like my … younger brother or something. I couldn’t help myself from butting in.”

“Isn’t he older than you?”

“Yes, in actual years. But when it comes to maturity, Abby's older.”

Molly laughed. She couldn’t help it. But soon enough, the ramifications of everything hit her hard. _Oh dear Lord. What horrendous mood of his will I be going home to later?_ “What did Sherlock say when you confronted him this morning?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I didn’t confront him.”

Molly felt like she’d been hit with a pail of cold, cold water. “You didn’t? Why not?”

“He looked like he was having a rough enough time of it, especially considering I was forcing him to watch Abby. Besides, he would’ve lied, and I would’ve had to drag it out of him. I thought you’d be more straightforward with me. I had no idea you were so gifted when it came to telling falsehoods.” She wiped at her mouth with her napkin and set it beside her plate. “I think you're going to end up being my favorite friend of all. If you’d be up for it, that is?”

Molly considered this. Her relationship with Sherlock was going to come out sooner or later. Besides, she didn’t have a lot of female friends and this was one who might actually be able to give her valuable insight on the great detective. She seemed to understand him in a way Molly found fascinating and wanted to learn more about. “Yes, I think I would.”

Mary beamed with a delighted grin. “Good.”

“But you still cannot tell John about me and Sherlock.”

The grin melted into a pout. “Why not?” Mary asked. “He owes me fifty quid for this.”

“”You’ve been betting on whether or not Sherlock and I were going to …” She couldn’t even finish the sentence. Shock wouldn’t let her.

“It wasn’t a bet, dear. It was a sure thing. I’ve suspected secret goings-on between you and Mr. Holmes for quite a while now. Ever since you slapped him.”

“You put a lot of stock in that one action, you know.”

Mary shrugged.

“OK. I’ll bite. What does my slapping him have to do with anything?”

“You publically took him to task for doing drugs. No one else could get away with doing that. Even John didn’t.”

“John punched him in the nose when he returned to London, and he allowed it. Sherlock has the unique ability to incite violence in people.”

“Actually, it was more of a head butt, but that’s irrelevant,” Mary said. “My point is that you didn’t see the chemistry coming off you two. Everyone else did. The whole temperature of the room changed.”

“Sherlock was high, and I was furious. How is that chemistry?”

Mary shrugged again. “You had to see what I saw. That’s all I know. Now, tell me how long this … whatever this is with you and Sherlock has been going on. What is it exactly? Not a one night stand?”

Molly took a fortifying gulp of wine. “No, it’s … Well … He calls it a companionship.”

"He would." Mary chuckled and shook her head. “But you are having sex, right?”

“Promise not to tell John.”

“You can’t mean it,” Mary whinged. “There are few greater pleasures in life than demonstrating to the man you love that he doesn’t know as much as you. Why are you so set on taking that away from me?”

“You can crow all you like _after_ Sherlock tells him, but not before.”

Mary’s eyes blazed with challenge. “I could just tell him right now and be done with it.”

Molly blazed right back. “Yes, but you wouldn’t get the juicy details then, would you?”

It took the older woman two seconds to make her decision. “Fine. Spill.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” Mary grunted.

Molly held up a hand, doing something she’d wanted to do for a long while but had never had the chance to before. She’d seen it in a movie during her teen years and loved it. Meena had declared it too childish. But now seemed like the perfect time. Sticking her smallest finger towards Mary, she said, “Pinkie promise?”

Mary laughed and immediately intertwined her finger around Molly’s. “Pinkie promise.”

“Good.”

“So you officially admit you are having sex with Sherlock?”

“Yes.”

“ _And_?”

“And what?”

Mary rolled her eyes. “And how is _Mr. Seven-Times-In-Baker-Street_?”

Molly blushed, hard. “You know that isn’t true, right?”

“Yes, Janine told me. Sherlock kept coming up with excuses for them to wait. He was more virtuous than an Austen heroine, apparently. Of course, she didn’t know how true that was. Plenty of men I know would have shagged her silly, even if they were playacting at being her boyfriend for a case.”

“And you’re not mad he would do that to your friend?”

Mary's smile dimmed. “Let’s just say I understand his reasoning. Given the right circumstances, we’ll all cross the line to protect those we love.”

A flare of fear mixed with anger flickered on the blonde’s face, the expression of a mother bear protecting her cub. These emotions made her seem more human somehow, more endearing. Molly could understand that fierce need to protect at all costs. It was how she felt about Sherlock. How she’d always been when it came to him. Something told her Mary felt the same way about the consulting detective. And understanding that helped Molly release the last bit of resentment she’d been holding.

“So,” Mary said, her smile returning. “How’s it working out between you two? Everything you hoped for?”

“It’s … complicated and at times, confusing and difficult.”

Mary nodded in commiseration. “I expect it would be with him. But give Sherlock some time to adjust. He’s spent a lifetime shutting people out, convinced he was better off alone. Adapting to having someone else permanently in your life after that is hard.”

“You speak as if you have experience with that.”

The two women shared a look of understanding before Mary said, “You're very insightful. I bet you run Sherlock a merry chase when you put your mind to it, don’t you? You certainly keep me on my toes.”

It was such an odd thing to say that it made Molly realize how little she truly knew about this woman beyond the fact that she was John’s wife, Abby’s mother, and a nurse at a GP practice. “I'm too boring for Sherlock to ever want to chase, and I couldn't keep him on his toes. He does that with me. Honestly," Molly added with a laugh, “I’m not sure that isn’t why I like him in the first place. Well, that and he’s gifted and exciting and amusing and complex and intense and gorgeous. But me? I’m just—”

"I think you'd be surprised how deep an impact you’ve made on him."

“I’m dependable and loyal, I give him unfettered access to my lab, and I’ve learned to intuit what he needs before he needs it. That’s what he likes about me.”

Mary shook her head, looking bemused. “If you ever figure out the power you have over him, Molly, Sherlock Holmes is in desperate trouble. I, for one, am looking forward to that day. I only hope I’m there to see it.”

This conversation was getting stranger and more uncomfortable. Molly cleared her throat and took another sip of wine. "I didn’t meet any of your family at the wedding. Do you have siblings?”

There was another flash of sentiment, but this one was quickly shuttered before Molly could discern what it was. But it was enough that she knew she’d hit an emotional button.

"Orphan. That's me." Mary gave a brittle smile and looked down at the water glass. “No family. They’re all dead.”

“Mine, too. I'm the last remaining Hooper.”

Mary’s gaze shot up, and the women shared another look, this one born of a commiseration of devastating loss. That was when Molly knew that while there was clearly more to Mary than she’d initially surmised, she, like Sherlock, was a good person to her core. Whatever portentous incongruity there was to Mary, Sherlock had surely already uncovered it. He trusted her. He would not have allowed her to marry John otherwise. And if Sherlock trusted Mary, Molly could as well.

She smiled. Mary smiled back. It wasn’t the sturdiest of foundations on which to build a friendship, but Molly didn’t really mind.

Finally, when the waiter stopped by to ask if they needed anything else and was sent away with a request for the bill, Molly said, "So you know when Sherlock is lying?"

Mary nodded.

"How?"

"He has tells, physical indicators that give him away. Everyone does. It's just a question of finding them and recognizing them for what they are. Some people are better at hiding them. Like you. How did you acquire that skill?"

"My father loved to play cards, poker especially. I loved spending time with him; so I didn't complain when he wanted to teach me. He said I had a natural talent. I'm not sure I believe that. I think it's more a case of most people underestimate me."

"Something you use to your advantage," Mary noted.

"If they aren't going to bother to get to know me before they judge, why shouldn't I?"

A laugh came from across the table. "Why indeed? Sherlock isn’t the only one who hasn't been able to see your worth. Of course, this is something he's since rectified."

"It's not like that."

"Isn't it? You're together romantically, aren't you? That is a very un-Sherlock thing to do when there isn't an ulterior motive in play."

Molly looked away. "Our relationship is not what anyone would term as 'romantic.' It's more like ..." She trailed off as she tried to think of how to put it. How did one even begin to explain? The English language didn’t have words which adequately described what was happening between her and Sherlock. “Complicated” was the only one that came close, but that didn’t truly cover it. At last, she said, “Lab partners with benefits.”

Mary's brows shot up in surprise at that. Her lips folded inward, as if she were holding back a laugh. This only embarrassed Molly. She looked down, but glanced back up when she felt someone take hold of her hand.

"Sherlock respects you a great deal. He has for some time. He lets you do things to him he doesn't allow anyone else."

"Sex doesn't count."

"I wasn't talking about sex, but now that you brought it up, yes it does. It does with _him_. John was relatively certain the man was a virgin. Personally, I never believed that. He’s too naturally curious not to want to experience the act at least once. But what I do believe is he spends his life keeping people away. It's only a few, hearty lot who’ve managed to breech his walls."

"Actually, I think it's more like he collects misfits."

That stopped Mary. Her face fell blank with confusion. "Misfits?"

Molly shrugged. "Misfits, outcasts, weirdos. The people the world has deemed somehow broken or not worth bothering with. Sherlock identifies a use in them and adds them to his crime-solving menagerie. The weirder, the better."

Mary took a moment to digest this. "You're right," she said at last with an excited snicker. "Crime-solving menagerie? I like it. It makes us sound like _The Avengers_ or something."

Molly laughed, finishing off her wine. She wanted another glass, but knew it was better not to over indulge before she returned to work. Her duties depended on her meticulous nature. She sat the glass back on the table, asking the question she been wanting to ask.

“What are Sherlock’s tells?”

“You think he’s lying to you?”

“No, he promised not to do that anymore.”

“You think he’ll keep that promise?”

Molly nodded. “He always keeps his promises to me.”

“Then why do you want to know his tells?”

“I’d like to know when he’s lying to someone else.”

Mary considered this before she said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

Mary propped an arm on the table, leaning her chin on her open palm. “Because, he’ll quickly deduce that I’ve informed you thusly and will then demand you tell them to him. No, the world is a better place if he can’t lie to me.”

“I won’t tell him anything. No matter what he says.”

“Since when have you been able to ever deny him anything?”

 _She has a point there._ “I assume he has more than one tell?”

Mary nodded.

“Then just share one. That way, you’ll be the only one to know the rest.”

A new grin appeared back on Mary’s face, this one heaped in mischief. “All right, Molly Hooper. I’ll tell you the tell and a few more things that might surprise you about the man you’re shagging.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Now, come closer and pay attention. I’m about to give you an uncommon advantage over London’s only consulting detective.”


	29. And So It Begins

Molly was late returning to work from lunch with Mary, which she knew meant she’d be late returning to the flat. But there was nothing to be done to change that. As she hurried through the last of her paperwork for the day, she wondered if she should text Sherlock to let him know. Just as quickly, she decided not to. Either he would be in a mood because Mary had made him babysit or he was out working a case. Whichever it was, a text concerning her expected delay would be most unwelcome.

As she electronically signed her name to the last form and submitted it, her brain went over the interesting bits of advice Mary had given her concerning how to deal with Sherlock. Mary had stressed the need to keep him in line.

“You let him think he’s running things and you’ll never find peace. Keep him on a leash. A long leash, but a leash just the same. It’s the only way. The trick is doing it in such a way as he doesn’t notice he’s on the leash.”

Molly shook her head in dismay. Sherlock was always running things. Sure, there were times she made him pay attention to her, but to maintain control of him at all times wasn’t something she was willing to do. Furthermore, she wasn’t sure it could be accomplished. Sherlock was like a feral animal. He’d been on his own for too long to ever be tamed. Besides, she considered as she started powering down her computer, she liked him as he was. That wild, regressive streak he had was incredibly sexy—always had been.

Not to say that all of Mary’s advice could be so easily dismissed. The woman was quite astute when it came to the consulting detective.

“He’s horrible at discerning human nature in everyday situations—especially that of women. He has a hard time trusting females and an even harder time understanding them. Mycroft is the same way. It’s the oddest thing. Though this isn’t a complex they got from their mother. She’s lovely.”

Molly had raised her eyebrows at this news. Mary had met Sherlock’s mother? When? Where? What had been said? What was she like? She’d wanted to ask a million questions about the woman who had given birth to the world’s only consulting detective, but as Mary had already moved on to additional advice about Sherlock, Molly hadn’t wanted to interrupt. Besides, she wasn’t sure it was her place to ask those kinds of personal questions. And, if she did ask, she wasn’t sure it wasn’t better to ask Sherlock himself. And Lord knew how that conversation would play out.

She had found all of Mary’s insights interesting--especially the “tell” which indicated Sherlock was lying. In the end, it was a remarkably normal one, one Molly felt she should have already known. She couldn’t wait to observe him the next time he was on one of his cases around her. She had no intention of letting Sherlock in on the fact that she knew (it would be nice to have a few secrets from him, if possible), but relished being able to discern such things in any case.

By the time she was retrieving her things from her locker to go home, her mind had turned to dinner. If she remembered correctly, there were enough items in the fridge and pantry to make quick fry up of fish and chips. _No, there aren’t_ , she instantly corrected, remembering that she’d cooked those over the weekend. _Well, that’s it_ , she decided. She’d have to stop by the shops. It meant she would be even later, but what else could be done?

  **—RE—**

Molly left from the front entrance of St. Bart’s, looking around her as she did every evening. Even though she was never able to spot the detail of men assigned to follow her everywhere she went to ensure her safety from Jim Moriarty, she had always felt more protected in the knowledge that they were there. Today, however, she felt strangely alone. She was sure it was just an overreaction on her part, but the feeling followed her as she made her way down the sidewalk and to the tube station. Pushing these ridiculous worries out of her mind, she took the last unoccupied seat on the tube headed up town. She was chin deep in a book when the man next to her spoke.

 “Molly?”

She glanced up and froze, feeling her stomach twist uncomfortably. _Oh God. No. Not this. Not him. Not now._ She’d known this would probably happen at some point, but she had—most cowardly—hoped this meeting would take place many, many years from now. She opened her mouth to respond, but closed it just as quickly.

After all, what could she possibly say to _him_?

**—RE—**

 

When the third kidney exploded, Sherlock gave up. Evidently, his experiment was not meant to be accomplished today. That its success could have changed the way humans understand how kidneys function was apparently irrelevant. His ability to adequately focus on his work was gone, as was the last of his patience. Removing his face shield and shucking the coveralls he’d put over his clothes, he tossed both away and stalked into the lounge to sulk in his chair.

Sherlock was irritated. There were a myriad of reasons for this. The first one that came to mind was staunchly ignored. That one, after all, was patently ridiculous. He would rise above. He was a person, not an animal.

The second and most enduring reason was the lack of a substantial case. He hadn’t heard from Lestrade all day, there were no clients, and a quick scan of his email account yielded nothing more than the usual tedium wrought of greed, revenge, and lust. _If someone has to be greedy, revengeful, or lusty, they should at least be clever and interesting when concocting and carrying out their nefarious plans_ , he thought with a sullen shake of his head. If today was any indication of the intelligence of the criminal classes, the world was being overrun with boring idiots.

There was the Moriarty case, of course. But as nothing new had happened in that area, he was at a stand-still until the professor made a move. Honestly, it was worse than that time he’d made the colossal error of playing chess with his father, who spent twenty, mind-numbing minutes ruminating over each move before he actually made them.

Next on Sherlock’s list of irritations of the day was one Mary Morstan. He’d always liked John’s wife—even though she’d shot him. In fact, he found he liked her better after she shot him. One had to respect a person who would do whatever it took if a situation called for it. No tears, guilt, or recriminations. Just cold, unwavering logic. Honestly, it was qualities like that which made him sometimes like her more than John.

But this latest stunt of hers was unforgiveable. Making him babysit Abby? Absurd. He had tried to tell her so when she came bursting into his bedroom this morning. Instead, she plopped the child carrier on the end of his mattress, gave the room a sweeping inspection, demanded he get out of bed, informed him she would return in a few hours, and left before he could do anything to stop her.

Clearly, she was set on getting even with him for that time several months ago when he’d needed John for the Wilkins case. Yes, he knew it wasn’t considered couth to go rushing into a couple’s bedroom in the middle of the night. But the case was a nine and a triple homicide with a decapitation thrown in for good measure! Did she think those came along every day? Besides, John had refused to answer the multitude of texts he’d sent. What was he supposed to have done?

Of course, Abby started wailing seconds after seemingly realizing her mother had departed—showing a remarkable amount of common sense to Sherlock’s mind. What child would actually want to be left under his charge or spend any amount of time even in his presence? _Well, there’s Archie._ But most children weren’t like Archie.

Sherlock had bellowed for Mrs. Hudson, but as the landlady didn’t appear and the repeated shouting only seemed to increase the pitch and fervor of Abby’s cries, he tried to contain his desperate need to panic. Screaming children were not his forte. Finally, when he could stand the noise no longer, he decided to try what had worked before. This, of course, was how it was that Mrs. Hudson had come upstairs to find Sherlock dancing around the flat with an infant while singing a pop song that hadn’t been a hit in more than thirty years.

 “I didn’t know you knew any Elton John, Sherlock,” she remarked from the doorway.

He stopped in his tracks, glaring at her for good measure. “About time you got here. I called and called. Are you in need of a hearing enhancement device, madam?”

 “If I had rushed right up, I would have missed you dancing with her. Wish I’d filmed it, but I don’t know how to work that part of my mobile. Shame, really.”

Hating the undercurrent of humiliation the landlady’s smirking, _now-isn’t-that-cute_? expression was forcing upon him, he dumped his goddaughter into her welcoming arms. Then, collecting the rest of Abby’s things and delivering them to 221 A, he effectively ejected both females from his flat. That Mrs. Hudson didn’t protest in the slightest proved his earlier deduction that Mary had called in the older woman as back up.

He decided to take a nice, long bath in order to establish a return to good humor and rational thought processes. But that wasn’t meant to be. As he soaked in the tub, thoughts of Molly and the previous evening kept cropping up. Even as he washed his hair and fashioned the soap Mohawk that had never failed to amuse him in the past, memories of last evening with Molly invaded until he was seriously considering heading down to the morgue in search of her. When he unconsciously began calculating how much weight one of the slabs could hold as well as how complicated it might be to seduce Molly on one of them, he rinsed himself off and got out of the tub in disgust at his own weakness.

_Lust? That’s all I can think about now? What is this relationship doing to me?_

Three cigarettes later, he tried to turn his attention with telly, but it seemed more inane than usual and he quickly switched off. Next, he wandered into the kitchen to make himself a sandwich. There, he found the book Molly had left for him. But seeing it only reminded him of her, which made him think of how soft her skin was every time he touched her, which led down a path he feared to tread. So, he hid the book in one of the cabinets, finished his lunch and had a fourth cigarette.

Mary returned some time later to collect her daughter. Sherlock had expected her to chide him for refusing to spend more than a few minutes in Abby’s presence or at the very least, crow at her well-plotted revenge scheme. Intent on ignoring her, he held up his phone and started deleting emails.

Instead, Mrs. Watson plonked into John’s old chair and said, “Why did you remove them?”

That got his attention. “Who?”

 “The men who have been following John’s and my every move ever since this Moriarty fellow popped back up are gone. Has something happened?”

Sherlock put his phone down. “What do you mean, they’re gone?”

“I mean they weren’t there today. I usually see them, but they weren’t anywhere.”

 “Maybe they got better at hiding from you.”

Mary narrowed her eyes at him. “No one can hide from me.” She leaned forward in her chair. “Besides, Molly’s are gone, too.”

That threw him for a loop. His mouth fell open. Instead of answering her, he’d grabbed his phone back up and shot off a text Mycroft. His brother, much to Sherlock’s frustration, didn’t immediately answer.

 “You didn’t know,” Mary determined.

He frowned at her in response as he got tired of waiting for a text and started ringing Mycroft instead. The elder Holmes knew his younger brother’s habits well enough to know better than to ignore him. When the voicemail sounded for the second time, Sherlock released a muffled curse and started checking his phone. Seconds later, he felt better.

 “Molly is still at Bart’s.”

 “I figured you had some additional tracker on her. Any idea why Mycroft had the security details removed?”

He had some suspicions. The first and most obvious was as a way of urging Sherlock to hurry up with closing this case.

Mary didn’t wait for his answer. “I know Jim Moriarty is dead, but the professor is still out there. Surely Mycroft understands the need for continued caution?”

Trust John to keep his wife informed of everything, Sherlock thought to himself. In this case, however, it was a welcome revelation. It saved him some time. “Apparently not. Then again, he doesn’t believe the professor exists.”

 “Is he an idiot?”

Sherlock laughed. He couldn’t help it. “Why don’t you ask him that the next time you happen to see him? I dare you.”

Mary rolled her eyes.

 “Don’t worry. I’ll talk to Mycroft. The details will be put back in place.”

Mary nodded and got to her feet. “Good. Now, if you will excuse me, I’ll collect my daughter from your nice landlady and be on my way. You know,” she said, “I expected you to last longer with her than ten minutes. It’s pathetic that you didn’t actually.”

He eyed her with disdain, refusing to take her bait.

 “Then again,” she continued, “I’d have paid anything to see you dancing around to _Crocodile Rock_. I’m told it’s quite a sight to behold.”

 “Mrs. Hudson talks too much.”

 “You would think that,” Mary said with a laugh as she walked out of the door.

Sherlock stared after her as she left, not liking the underlying deductions he made from her words and her visit. Refusing to dwell on such inconsequential things, he called his brother again. Once he got the voicemail again, he shot off another, more severe text. Then, with one last check that Molly was indeed where she should be, he’d invested himself in his experiments.

And now here he was, several hours later, smoking the last of his cigarettes and waiting for the woman who’d refused to leave his mind all day to show up in person.

_Is this what I’ve been reduced to? The great consulting detective?_

Molly was already twenty minutes late. A quick check on her told him she was at the shops, something she frequently did after work. He made a mental note to hide more money in her purse. When Molly had blatantly refused to take his card for frequent grocery shopping trips—citing his unwillingness to accept money towards the rent or any other bill in regards to the flat—he had started secreting funds in her purse. He knew John would have been surprised that he would even care about something so trivial, but knowing the meagerness of her salary, he refused to have Molly spending money she should be saving on buying him milk. Now that she was his companion, he was more intent than ever that she should keep her salary for herself. There were few areas in his life when Sherlock considered himself a true gentleman, but this was one of them.

He considered sending her a text telling her to pick up some more cigarettes, but thought better of it. One, even though she’d never overtly complained about his occasional smoking habit, he knew she didn’t like it. Two, she didn’t know he’d put a tracking device on her. Even if she assumed he’d somehow managed to deduce her whereabouts by his usual means—As if he could. He was, after all, a consulting detective, not a psychic!—Sherlock had no interest in taking the chance of possibly cluing her in. Instinct told him she wouldn’t like it, and Molly Hooper with a temper was something he preferred to avoid.

Besides, if there was someone here who deserved to be in a temper, it was him. He was still disgruntled by how she’d so expertly handled him last evening. Every necessity had been intuitively seen to without requiring him to say a word. Many men, he knew, would have been contented and pleased by this.

Sherlock wasn’t most men. It was unnerving to have a woman know him so well as to be able to predict his desires and motives. It also highlighted how little control he had in this relationship. He liked to be in control. Things ran so much more smoothly then.

_Things ran quite smoothly last night as well. You certainly weren’t complaining, were you?_

He ignored John’s voice in his head. It had been a lingering presence during his two years away from London—something which he believed had manifested itself only because he missed his best friend. When it became more pronounced at his return home, he’d assumed it was because John initially refused to speak to him. Now, over a year later, he realized it was here to stay. John Watson had effectively become his voice of reason when he was knowingly lying to himself, his Jiminy Cricket, if you will.

Sherlock shoved it all away as he shot to his feet. He went into the lavatory to clean his teeth. It was only when he’d changed his clothes that John’s voice came again.

_So, what’s the plan, then? Snog her while she brings in the groceries? Have your way with her on the staircase?_

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he muttered.

_Is that why you changed into her favorite shirt?_

“I tell you, I have no plans to kiss her.”

_Yeah? Why clean your teeth then?_

He ignored this in favor of making himself a cuppa, he returned to the lounge and tried to focus on something else—anything else. Unfortunately, before he could do this, the woman herself showed up.

His eyes swept over her. _No bags. No shops then._ Or something stopped her from going. _What? Hair windblown from walking. Cheeks reddened. Also from the wind? Eyes_ —

Molly didn’t come into the lounge. She barely stopped at all as she hurried upstairs to her room. She said nothing to him. She didn’t even look his way. Sherlock was bewildered.

_Is she angry at me? What have I done?_

Just as quickly, he realized he was being ridiculous. Whatever this was had nothing to do with him.

_Is she upset about the detail disappearing? Is she worried about her safety?_

He headed for the stairs, intent on finding out what was going on. When he hit the bottom stair, however, he caught a whiff of her scent. Lavender, lemon, and a light hint of decomposition. But this time, a new odor mingled with it. Well, not new exactly. No, he’d smelled this particular intermingling of scents before. He knew what it meant.

Sherlock’s hands unwillingly fisted at his sides as he took the stairs two at a time.          

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From October of 2015 until October of 2016, I have dedicated myself to doing those things which have always scared me. It’s not because I’m some kind of adrenaline junkie, but more because I’m tired of fear getting in the way of making my dreams come true. I have had enough of that; so I am pushing forward--fear be damned. 
> 
> This is not an easy road, and I am going to fail many times, but it won’t be because I didn’t try. So, with that in mind, I am taking on two such fears right this second:
> 
> Have you ever wondered who Misophonia is? Whether I’m a published author in real life? I get asked these questions all the time, and I finally decided to answer them. Why not? We’re all friends, right?  
> Misophonia’s real name is Bettie Williams. I’m an award-winning author of novels and short stories from South Carolina who took a short break from her own characters to follow through on her obsession with writing for her favorite television shows (like Sherlock). This is because my first novel—a historical romance—was recently published. It’s called The Rake’s Tale, and if you like my writing, humor, and storytelling style, you should check it out. (Best of all: You can read it all in one swoop without having to wait for me to update!) 
> 
> It’s available in paperback through Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Books-A-Million or your favorite book retailer. It is also available on Kindle through Amazon. If you liked it, leave me a review on Amazon or your favorite book outlet. Even though I have no intention of giving up my obsession for writing fanfiction, becoming a real-world published novelist is something I have wanted for a long, long time. Your support is greatly appreciated.
> 
> And now I am off to write some more. (It never ends.) Until next time, my friends!


	30. Closer

Molly ignored the knock on the door. When it sounded again, she remembered Mary’s remark on how Sherlock was terrible at discerning human nature “unless it involves murder.” So, she decided to be more obvious about her present desire to be left alone.

“Sod off!”

Silence was the only reply she got. Satisfied, she settled back against her pillow and resumed the tearful self-recriminations she’d been in the throes of before Sherlock had so rudely interrupted. The slight chink of metal on metal had her popping up in bed again. _He wouldn’t dare!_

“Sherlock, if you don’t leave me alone, I’ll never speak to you again!”

It was empty threat, and they both knew it. Silence was again his response, but this time she wasn’t buying it. Stuffing her pillow behind her back, Molly reclined against the headboard, crossed her arms over her chest, and waited for the inevitable.

Three seconds later, the door to her bedroom swung open. Sherlock stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. He seemed furious, but she didn’t care. If anyone had a right to be angry here, it was her.

 “What part of ‘sod off’ did you not understand?” she asked.

He ignored this and clipped, “You saw Tom today.”

 _How did he?—Of course he did. He’s Sherlock. Why do I even bother to wonder?_ She sighed heavily. “It’s none of your business who I see.”

“As you are now _my_ companion, I beg to differ.”

Molly's arms fell as her sides as she hunched forward in the bed, unable to believe what she was witnessing. Unexpectedly, a warm feeling filled her stomach. “Are you jealous?”

He blinked, frowned, blinked again, and with a dismissive wave of his hand, said, “What would I have to be jealous of? Tom on his best day is nothing but a poor facsimile of me. Now, quit stalling and tell me … What did he want?”

Sitting back again, Molly once more crossed her arms over her chest and said, “Figure it out yourself, o' great detective.”

His nostrils flared in anger before he closed the distance between them, leaning on his arms across the bed until he was dangerously close. The warmth of his body along with the smell of his aftershave was an assault on her senses and ability to concentrate. This only made her more cross.

“Molly Hooper," he said, "I have tried with some effort to keep from deducing you aloud since we became friends as you don’t seem to like it when I do so. Don’t make me change my mind on that score. You won’t like what I uncover.”

The only response she gave him was to cock an eyebrow his way. Inhaling swiftly, he straightened and said, “As you will.”

And with that, his eyes swept over her, stopping here and there and taking stock. They then fell to the book and purse along with its contents which were scattered across the floor. Within all of a minute, he inhaled and took a step back. She knew then he had most of it. But all the clues in the world wouldn’t give him _everything_.

“You went on the tube to the shops. Tom was there when you sat down. You didn’t notice at first because you were reading your book. His presence was unexpected, as was the fact that he has a new girlfriend with a ginger cat. You were so upset from your few minutes’ conversation with him that you returned to the flat without having made any purchases.”

The ache in her heart which she’d almost forgotten about in her anger at Sherlock returned with a full vengeance. “You have your answer then. Get out.”

He winced. Sherlock opened his mouth and shut it several times, resembling a suffocating fish. Finally, with a stiff nod, he turned on heel to go. But before he reached the door, he stopped. With his back to her, he said, “I’m sorry.”

“For invading my privacy?” she said.

He turned, a half smile quirking one side of his generous mouth. “No, I warned you about that particular tendency of mine before you decided to become my flatmate.”

“Then why apologize?”

“Because that bumbling fool hurt you.”

Something in his tone was too tender, too sweet. It broke the dam she’d been building to keep her emotions at bay, and Molly found herself sobbing again without restraint. The next thing she was aware of was the feeling of his arms coming around her, the hard plane of his chest as her face was pressed against it. She wanted to push him away, to save him from this soggy mess she was turning into—God knows he must be mortified—but she couldn’t. Instead, she leaned into him and wept all the harder.

Sherlock said nothing as she soaked his shirt. He merely gave her clumsy pats her back and held her. When there were no more tears to be shed, and Molly was feeling ridiculous to be making such a fuss over a man she’d broken things off with—especially as she was doing so in the arms of the man she was in love with—she eased out of Sherlock’s embrace.

“It’s all right now,” she said.

He handed her a handkerchief from his pocket. _Of course he carries those_ , she thought as she made quick work of mopping her face. She then blew her nose twice. The second time was so loud Sherlock winced again.

“Sorry about that,” Molly said, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. “I’ll wash this and return it to you.”

“It’s fine,” he said.

“I’m OK now.”

He nodded, but made no move to leave.

"I have no idea why I was upset. I don't have any right to be. I broke it off with him. He has a right to see whomever he wishes."

He stared at her, his eyes wide, understanding, and soulful. It was so unlike the Sherlock she habitually dealt with. _Well, not unlike_ my _Sherlock_ , she mentally countered.

"I think I'll just lie down for a little while longer." She stretched herself out on the bed, fluffing the pillow behind her head. She expected Sherlock to take this opportunity to leave—to flee like any sane man would in this tidal wave of feminine emotion—but he didn't. Instead, he arranged himself until he was lying parallel to her.

So there they were, both lying on the flats of their backs on her bed staring at the ceiling. The silence was soothing, allowing her to think. She focused on the ceiling tiles overhead, but her thoughts were of Tom.

The touch of Sherlock's hand taking hers broke through her reverie of reproaches and confusion. Molly looked over to see him raise her hand. He studied the limb for a bit, running a stray finger along the pad of her thumb and across her palm. She shivered involuntarily, and his eyes shot askance to look at her a moment before returning to her hand. Holding her wrist in one hand, he raised his other, covering her palm with the flat of his until the two hands were fully touching. His hand was so much bigger than hers, his long fingers dwarfing her own. Sherlock seemed to likewise be taking note of this size difference as he twisted their paired hands sideways to study them.

She didn't dare move her hand during this process. Instead, she kept perfectly still, allowing him free rein. Molly found herself fascinated to just observe him. He traced a finger over the back of her hand, paying particular attention to follow the lines made by the fragile bones of her carpals and metacarpals. Finally, when he seemed to have completed his analysis and she thought he would release her, he instead intertwined his fingers with her own.

She lightly gasped, first from the shock of his doing this and then from the slightly uncomfortable stretch of having his fingers between hers. She’d had sex with this man on more than one occasion, but there was something about this gesture which felt far more intimate. Curling his arm, he pulled their joined hands to him, resting them on the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

Molly sighed, feeling calmed. "Sherlock?"

"Umm?" he replied, the gravely depth of his voice sending tingles down her spine.

"Thank you."

He nodded.

"I'm over him. I promise."

His thumb rubbed gently over the fleshy joint of her hand. The warmth of his skin burned a path on hers. It was terribly distracting and oddly comforting at the same time.

"It's just ... I was a truly terrible person to lead him on like that. Of course, I didn't know I was leading him on at the time. I cared about him, even thought I was in love with him ..."

She broke off when Sherlock's grip tightened.

"Are you psychic, Molly?"

She frowned at him. "No."

"Did you enter into the relationship with Tom for the purposes of making him care for you so you could then callously reject him later?"

"What—No!"

"And once you realized you did not, in fact, love him, did you break it off?"

"Yes."

He shrugged. "You did all you could. Beating yourself up over things you cannot change is a waste of both time and essential brain space."

"But I feel—"

"Guilt is like quicksand. Take one step into it, you'll sink and never be able to get out. Smother the guilt, Molly. Then and only then can you be truly free of him."

"But that doesn't change the fact that I—"

"Tom survived you. He’s moved on with someone else. What is left to feel guilty about?"

She considered this a long while before she said, "Tom was safe and secure. I liked that. I suppose ... seeing him today—finding out he’s moved on as he has—it made me sad because I realized the safe and secure option is no longer available."

He turned his head to look at her. "And is that what you want? The life you would have had with Tom? That can never be me, Molly."

"I know that. I don't want that. Tom was the same thing every day. Boring and unchanging and comfortable. You are exciting and spontaneous and scary."

"I scare you?"

She inhaled loudly and let out the breath slowly, unsure of whether he could handle the truth. "Yes. Sometimes."

"Why?"

"Because I don't always know what you're thinking or what you're going to do. I try, but I'm not always right. You live life by the seat of your trousers, Sherlock. You've decided to be in a relationship with me, but there aren't any firm rules clarifying what that means, what my role is in your life, or what the boundaries are. You're not in love with me, but I am in love with you. Honestly, I don't even know why you want to be with me. Loneliness? Great. So, what happens when you one day decide this isn't what you want anymore? What happens when you realize I'm more trouble than I'm worth? How will I handle it then?"

She shook her head, hating the tears welling again. "I lost you once when you left London. I told myself it was OK because there had never been anything between us and there never would be. I forced myself to accept it and move on. But now we have ... _this_." She waved her free hand between them. "I know what it's like to kiss you, to hold you, to make love to you. I know what it's like to be with you day in and day out, to laugh with you, to argue with you, to talk to you, to want to pull out every hair in my head because you frustrate me like no other. I know _you_ now, Sherlock. Not just the brooding, dangerous image of the man I wanted you to be who I was infatuated with all those years. I know you, and I love you. But one day all this between us will end. It has to."

Hot tears poured down the sides of her face as she stared back at the ceiling. "I should have stayed with Tom because when you leave me next time, I won't survive. I know I won't."

He kept silent, just held her hand against his chest, his thumb rubbing against her skin intermittently. The longer he didn’t speak, the more she hated herself for her candor, the more she wanted to take back each word and bury them so deeply within herself they’d never be heard from again. At last, when she could take it no more, when she wanted to jerk her hand back from him and demand he leave the room, he released her. In one, quick move, his body loomed over hers, his eyes were staring down at her.

"I'm not Tom," he said, his gaze running over her face as lightly as a lover's caress. His hand cradled her cheek, his thumb pressed away the dampness of her tears. "I don't know any of the answers you seek. I didn't plan any of this, Molly. I’ve always lived my life alone. It was better that way. Until John came, that's what I believed. Before I knew it, it wasn't just him taking up real estate in my life. It was you as well. The longer you’re here with me, the more space you take."

She shook her head. "I don't want to be—"

His finger pressed against her lips to silence her. "You are not and have never been a burden to me. In fact, you are one of the most intelligent women I’ve ever met. I’m attracted to intelligence, in case you didn't know. Well," he added with a wry grin, "intelligence and mystery and death. You hold all three qualities, which makes you _very_ attractive to me."

She gasped as warmth began invading her nether regions. His words hadn't been meant to arouse her. Molly was sure about that, but they had anyway. She moved his hand away from her mouth. "You think I'm mysterious?" No one had ever thought that about her before.

"You are one mystery I can never seem to completely figure out. Once I think I have, you do something else that leaves me utterly confused."

Her mouth fell open in surprise. _What could I possibly be doing to confuse the great Sherlock Holmes?_

"Molly, when I asked you to be my companion, it was mainly due to loneliness. But that wasn't the only reason. I care about you. I always have. I like you. You're morally strong; honest to a fault; loyal; generous; a hard, diligent worker; intuitive; and I greatly admire your ability to tolerate me. Not many people have that skill in my experience. Moreover, I enjoy how you challenge me."

"I challenge you?"

He grinned again. "It's one of your best qualities."

Molly smiled up at him, feeling her heart swell in her chest.

Suddenly, though, his grin dimmed. "I want you to stay with me for as long as you like. I can't offer you the life you would have had with Tom. That's not in my power. But I can promise that if our relationship ends, it will be because _you_ ended it, because _you_ couldn't take any more of _me_. I told you this was a permanent companionship, remember? I meant it."

He looked away for a moment. "I won't do this right. I don't know how. You're going to have to be patient, to teach me how to be with you in a … _relationship_ , but I will try to learn. I will _try_. Is that enough?"

The tears came back, but she didn't care this time. She smiled up at him, reaching up to cradle his jaw in her hands. "It's enough," she said, pulling him down. "More than enough."

He came willingly, his lips moving to capture hers. She kissed him back, wrapping her arms around his neck. Molly had never been this happy in her life. The sprightly kiss of happiness, however, soon became something deeper and more passionate.

The next thing she was consciously aware of was the slide of his naked form against hers. _How did that happen?_ But her mind couldn't keep the thought long enough to answer the question. Sherlock's mouth and hands were everywhere, bringing her so much pleasure she had become a creature not of thought, but of feel. She was not idle during this time. Molly took delight in gripping Sherlock's strong shoulders, smoothing the flats of her palms against his chest, tweaking his nipples, and pressing hot kisses against the contours of his throat.

Their previous times together had been wonderful, energetic couplings, almost a race to a gratifying conclusion. But this time was decidedly different. It was a languid trading of kisses and caresses, an easy and coordinated dance, and a slow, but intense experience. Sherlock brought her to orgasm twice, once with his hands and once with his mouth. Molly grew tired following the second orgasm and thought Sherlock must now raise himself from between her thighs and take his own pleasure, but the man proved himself persistent, as if on some kind of mission.

"Sherlock. Oh, yes ... Oh, sweet Lord!"

Her third orgasm crashed over her just as he finally moved back up her body. Looking down at her, he aimed himself against her and with a soft grunt, pushed inside. Molly moaned and closed her eyes against the torrent of pleasure this simple act brought. The feelings were so unexpected, so concentrated she couldn't stand it.

"Sherlock," she said, clinging to his shoulders, "Oh, God, I love you!"

As he continued to rock inside her, she rode out the bliss of her latest orgasm until she quaked and trembled one last time.

Then Molly realized what she'd just said. Her eyes widened as she tensed beneath him. He continued to watch her, his eyes so dilated they seemed black. He didn't stop thrusting. If anything, he encouraged her to wrap her legs around his hips.

When she did so, this new angle sent another zing of ecstasy ripping through her. When she finally came back to herself, she thought, _Maybe he didn't hear me_.

Sherlock's thrusts became more intense and erratic as he moved closer and closer to his own orgasm. The delicious sounds he made in the back of his throat aroused her so that she reached up to kiss him. He kissed her back, hard and penetrating. Breaking away, he buried his face against the side of her neck, his breath coming out in raspy, uneven heaves.

"S-s-say it again," he grunted.

She stiffened. _Surely he doesn't mean_ —

"Molly," he pleaded as his body became racked with shudders.

She pulled his face up so she could look at him. "Are you sure?"

" _Yes._ Say it ... _now_. Oh, God!"

Fascinated, she watched him closely as she said, "I love you, Sherlock."

And with that, the great detective fell apart in her arms.


	31. Frustrating Mr. Holmes

           

When Sherlock's exhausted form rolled onto the pink duvet covering her bed, Molly followed him with her eyes. When his chest heaved as he fought to catch his breath, she watched him. Even when he draped his elbow over his eyes to block out the light overhead and his tongue darted out to wet his dry lips, she observed it all, her mind a knotted riot of thoughts.

"Molly, stop it."

She jolted in the bed. She couldn't help it.

"Don't overthink this. Just enjoy it."

Staring back up at the ceiling, she nodded. He was right. Did it really matter that she'd blurted out she loved him while in the throes of sexual climax or that he’d demanded she repeat the gesture during his own pleasurable end? Did she really need to know why? He knew she loved him. She knew he knew she loved him. Maybe he was just trying to be nice, to alleviate her concern in shouting it out in the first place?

_Yeah, but during sex of all times?_

"Molly," Sherlock scolded once more.

Again, he was right. Overthinking this would only lead to confusion and misunderstandings. She and Sherlock were finally on common ground, in a good place. Best not to rock the boat. Sometimes, things were just the way they were. No explanation needed. Sherlock had been very sweet today, almost the epitome of the perfect boyfriend. He was calm, caring, and gave her all the reassurance she needed. Molly couldn't have asked for more if she tried.

_Well, you could._

She squelched that thought immediately.

"If you persist in this needless activity, you're going to give me no choice but to engage you in sexual congress again. You can't seem to hold your thoughts when I do _that_."

She darted a glance at him. His sight were still blocked by his arm, but she could tell from the determined lock of his jaw that he wasn't teasing. As she was wonderfully relaxed and sore and exhausted from all the paces he'd put her through, she decided to demur to his wishes. Besides, she really had to wee.

Molly rose from the bed, stepping over their discarded clothing on the floor as she looked about for her robe. Spotting the tattered, blue garment lying over the chair in the corner, she pulled it on and knotted it about her waist. 

He leaned up on his elbows and said, "Where are you going?"

"The loo," she said. "Be back shortly."

"Of course, of course," he said. "Urinating promptly after intercourse is the best way to avoid urinary tract infections." After spouting this ungainly medical fact, Sherlock collapsed back on the bed, his arm once more covering his eyes.

Molly scurried downstairs to take care of business. Upon her return to the room, she found Sherlock propped up in bed. Apparently, he'd grown cold because he'd moved under the blanket and sheet, which were now gathered around his naked waist. Swathed in all that pink, he looked more attractive, like a lone ship of masculine splendor in a sea of feminine color.

Currently, the ship in question was frowning down at his phone.

"Problem?" she asked, taking a sip from the glass of water she'd poured for herself from the kitchen and carried upstairs.

"Mycroft is playing games, games I don't have patience for right now."

She climbed into bed beside him, not bothering with the covers as she avoided the inevitable wet spot that accompanied their coupling and adjusted her robe over her legs. She stuffed a pillow into the small of her back in order to make the heavy wooden headboard she was resting against more comfortable. Molly went to put her glass of water down on the side table, but Sherlock took it from her before she could and drained it dry.

"Thank you," he said, returning it to her before typing on his phone again.

"Umm ... You're welcome," she replied.

Like the famed Goldilocks upon trying out Baby Bear's bed, Sherlock was too big for the mattress. Molly made that determination when she spotted his toes peeking out from the bottom of the covers. It was such an ordinary, human detail to notice, she couldn't help smiling. In fact, the bed itself was too small for them both, as there was little room left over when she sat next to him. No matter how much she might try otherwise, her elbow kept rubbing against his, especially as he continued to fiddle with his phone. She wondered idly—since she'd been taking up most of the bed when he'd initially entered the room—if he'd been half hanging off when they'd been lying on their backs talking.

"Molly."

She sighed, knowing what she was guilty of this time. "Sorry, but this is _my_ room. I should be free to think as much as I like here."

"Not when you're wasting your thoughts on nonsensical things."

"How can you tell they’re nonsensical?"

"The bemused expression on your face gives you away."

That startled her momentarily before she gave a shrug. Feeling more comfortable with him than she ever had and given their close proximity, she decided to conduct a little experiment. She settled her back against the headboard and casually leaned her head against his shoulder. He paused briefly the second she made contact with him. Even though she didn't bother to look at him, she still felt him dart a glance down at her. But after a few moments of silence, he resumed typing on his phone.

Molly smiled and folded her hands in her lap. The events of the day were taking their toll, and she found herself growing drowsy. She wondered what he’d say if she just fell asleep against him like this. Would he mind? They had never cuddled or even slept together following their previous encounters—mostly because she always wanted to give him his space. But did that count when he was in _her_ space?

"Damn it!"

That jerked her out of the light doze she'd fallen into. _Is he angry I'm thinking now?_ If so, he's the one being ridiculous. "What? What is it?"

"Mycroft. He hasn't responded to me all day. That's not like him, and now he doesn't seem to be in the Diogenes Club either."

"What's the Diogenes Club?"

"Mycroft's second home."

"Is there a problem I should be aware of?"

"Nothing I can't take care of as soon as he bothers to return my phone calls or texts. He's pushing me. He knows I like to work on my own timetable. Does he really think these kind of juvenile games are going to get him anywhere? I will give him news when I have news to share, not before."

That reminded her of Mary and their lunch, which sent a spike of apprehension running through her. "Speaking of news, I have something to tell you."

"I have something to tell you as well."

As Molly couldn't imagine what that might be and she worried she would get so caught up in Sherlock's news that she might forget about her own—which was not something that would benefit either of them in the long run—she said, "Do you mind if I share mine first?"

He shrugged, jostling her head slightly which was still balanced against his shoulder. Molly straightened away from him, figuring it was best to be blunt.

Folding her legs up under herself, she turned to look at him. "Mary knows."

He grunted, but didn't look up from the mobile.

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes. Mary knows," he said, scrolling on his phone as if searching for something.

"Do you understand what I am saying when I said, 'Mary knows'?"

He sighed and finally looked at her. "I assume you mean Mary knows you and I are in a relationship."

It was Molly's turn to frown. "You don't seem surprised."

"She noticed your pants on my dresser this morning and, based on things she implied during her return visit to collect Abby as well as her condescending smirk, it wasn't hard to figure out. I assume your lunch went well beyond that?"

"Aren't you worried that she knows?"

The hand that had been holding the phone up for his perusal landed in his lap. "Why would I be worried? She was bound to find out sooner or later."

"But aren't you worried she'll say something to John? I asked her not to, by the way. I figured you’d want to do the honors. He is your best friend. Besides, I wanted to talk to you to decide the best approach for telling everyone."

Sherlock flopped back against the headboard with a frustrated growl, his forehead puckered in confusion. "Is that really necessary?"

Mortification washed over her like an icy wave. "You don't want people to know?"

"Why must you always jump to the worst conclusion?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "What I meant is that is it really necessary we make some big production out of this? Must we announce anything?" He made a frustrated motion with his hands. "Can't people just figure it out themselves? They aren't _that_ stupid. Surely they'll put it together at some point."

A myriad of emotions raced through Molly. Relief, wonder, happiness, confusion, and annoyance. But it was the fact that Sherlock had said all of that with the tone of a recalcitrant toddler that left her smiling. She rested her full body against his shoulder this time, trying to hide her rising amusement.

"You think this is funny?" he grumbled.

"Possibly," she said. "But we still have to tell everyone."

"Why?"

"Because you're Sherlock Holmes."

That stalled him so much he sputtered, "What possible difference does that make?"

"You notoriously don't have romantic relationships. And even though everyone knows I've wanted you for ages, they are also more than aware that you only see me as the mousy woman who can get you twenty-four hour morgue access and stray body parts."

"Any person who identifies you as 'mousy' is an idiot."

Her smile widened. "My point is that people are going to need an explanation. Well, not people _per se_ , but our friends do. Otherwise, there’ll be confusion."

He sighed, long and heavily. "Fine."

Molly heard him typing on his phone again, indicating he'd already put the issue out of his mind, but it didn't bother her. Obviously, devising the plan on how best to let everyone know was going to fall mainly to her. But knowing she had his full support made Molly feel immensely better nonetheless.

 _Maybe this will work between us after all_ , she thought with a happy, little giggle.

Her phone dinged, indicating the arrival of a new text. Still musing over her friends' reactions to the news that she was dating Sherlock, Molly rose from the bed and went to claim her mobile from the floor where it had fallen out of her purse. She made it back to the bed before she bothered to look down at the new text. When she did, she let out a shriek.

"What did you do?"

Sherlock peered at her over his phone. "You wanted them told. I told them."

"And copied me?"

"Of course."

Shocked, Molly stared from the man sitting in her bed to her phone and back to him. Then, shaking her head, she turned back to her phone again, fighting to concentrate on the words she read aloud. "'To Whom It May Concern: The purpose of this message is to convey to you all that Molly Hooper is now my permanent romantic companion. Yes, this means we're having sex on a regular basis. No, you may not ask any other questions. SH.'"

"It's concise and to the point. Is there a problem?"

"You sent this out in a group text."

"Yes, you said you wanted everyone told."

"Not via group text!"

His forehead puckered again. "Why not? How would it have been better for me to send twenty individual texts when one will complete the same job? Now they all know. That's what you wanted, correct?"

Molly scrolled through the long list of names he'd sent the message to before yelping, "Mike Stamford? You sent this to Mike Stamford!?"

"Not good?"

"And Meena? How did you even get her number?"

His attention returned to his phone. "From your mobile."

Molly groaned. "Stay off my phone!" She jerked herself up from the bed, marched over to her chest of drawers, removed her pyjamas, and stormed to the door. Before she left, she heard her mobile going off again. In fact, the texts were coming in at such a high volume, the dings couldn't keep up. With a grunt, she tossed the offensive device in his direction. Proving himself as dexterous as she knew he was, Sherlock caught it one-handed.

"Why are you giving me this? You just told me to stay off of it."

"I'm going to take a shower. You made this mess. You deal with it."

She slammed out of the room and scuttled down the stairs. _Of all the nerve of that man! Did he sincerely not realize all the damage he'd wrought? What a complete moron!_

She mentally ranted and raved her way through a shower, so angry she was halfway through shampooing her hair the second time before she realized she'd already washed it. Gritting her teeth, she rinsed the soap away, massaged in a healthy amount of creme rinse, and went to work cleaning the rest of her body.

Twenty minutes later, she was washed, dried, and back in her robe. She heard movement in the lounge and glared at the mirror as she realized Sherlock had finally come down from her bedroom. Knowing hiding in the bath was not the most expedient way to handle the issue he'd caused, she forced herself to leave the room. After all, what was done was done. And at least now everyone knew. She couldn't stay mad at him forever. But that didn't mean she wasn't going to make him kowtow a bit first. Molly grinned, trying to imagine anyone making the illustrious detective grovel.

_Never happen._

Opening the door, Molly knew she was ready to face the world—or at the very least, the egotistical Mr. Holmes. Unfortunately, when she turned the corner to enter the lounge, she found it was a completely different Mr. Holmes who was staring back at her from the couch.


	32. Your Move

After the thirtieth response from the group text, Sherlock began deleting the incoming messages unopened. What was the point of reading them? Everyone seemed to be reacting to the news in the same way: Surprise, followed by an endless stream of tedious questions. Likewise, he deleted all new messages from Molly's phone. From the ire she'd displayed before leaving the room, it was better not to add any more pricks to her temper right now.

Sherlock shook his head, baffled. Just when he thought they were getting to a less confusing place in the relationship, Molly throws a fit over nothing. He truly didn't understand the issue. She said she wanted everyone told. He’d told them. Wasn’t he giving her what she wanted? Isn’t that what women wanted men to do in relationships? As much as Sherlock was ruing the fact that he had done so via group text because of the annoying plethora of messages which happened whenever anyone decided to respond, he wasn't sure why Molly was so cross.

The vibration of his mobile informed him John was ringing. He glanced briefly at the screen before hitting the "send to voicemail" option and tossing the phone on the bed. He knew exactly what his best friend wanted to tell him. But as he already had one irritated doctor to deal with, Sherlock put off the other.

He stretched a bit to relieve the stiffness which had developed in his muscles. Molly's bed was too small. Honestly, he was unsure how John had slept comfortably for the years he'd lived here. Sherlock knew he never could. There had been times when he and Molly were mid-coital that he thought they might fall off. _Best to move things to my room from now on_. Not only was his bed remarkably larger and more comfortable, but it was _his_. In fact, he wasn't sure why Molly wasn't already sleeping there. She could keep her things in this room if she wanted, but they certainly wouldn't be spending their nights up here.

When Molly's mobile started dinging like a maniac again, he deleted the incoming messages and turned the blasted thing off. Checking his own phone, he saw he had two missed calls from John, one from Lestrade, and one from Mycroft.

"Finally," he said, getting off the bed and rooting around for his trousers. _Where did I put them?_

They were tossed over Molly's desk. After giving up the search for his underpants, he was just pulling the trousers on over his hips when he heard Molly’s scream, which was quickly cut off. He shot out of the door, down the stairs, and was in the lounge before another full minute had passed. One look from an obviously startled Molly—fresh from her bath—to the equally startled man standing by the sofa told Sherlock everything he needed to know.

"Mycroft," he said with a glare. "Should’ve known it was you. You’ve always had a devastating effect on women.”

“Very funny,” Mycroft retorted. “You know, if I’d been Moriarty, she’d be dead by now.”

 _Point Mycroft._ Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. “You know, there is such a thing as knocking."

"I did. Multiple times. No one seemed to hear me so I let myself in." Swiftly and efficiently, Mycroft's eyes categorized everything, pausing matter-of-factly on the still unbuttoned waistband of Sherlock's trousers. He made himself comfortable on the sofa with his usual aplomb of someone having tea with the Queen.

"I also rang you,” Mycroft said. “Clearly, you were _busy_." His smile widened, demonstrating his intense discomfort and customary dislike of everything in his sibling’s flat. "I see your _tasteful_ group text was not in jest. Welcome to manhood, Sherlock. Or should I pass my compliments on to your ... goldfish? Girlfriend? Dupe? I forget. What are we calling them these days?"

Molly let out a soft gasp. Sherlock tensed. This was a harsher tone than Mycroft's natural condescension. He must be truly angry. Not even Mycroft would be so crass otherwise. Plus, he had yet to acknowledge Molly’s presence—something he would never be so impolite to do under normal circumstances. Sherlock stepped forward, putting himself directly in Mycroft's sight line, effectively blocking Molly. Even though her Winnie-the-Pooh pyjamas more than covered her, he didn't like Mycroft even looking her way. If the elder Holmes was going to loose his venom on someone, it would be someone who could handle him. And because Sherlock knew it would annoy Mycroft more, he didn't bother to button his trousers or worry about the fact that he was bare-chested. In fact, he cocked his hip, resting one hand there as if he were completely at ease.

"Well, Mycroft,” he said with smug grin, “I did try to contact you all afternoon. Where have you been? Was there an all-you-can-eat dessert buffet at the Diogenes Club?"

Mycroft's smile tightened. _Point Sherlock._ "Unlike you, I have responsibilities—real responsibilities." He flicked a glance behind Sherlock. "We need to talk _alone_."

"Why? So you can justify why you took away the security details for Molly, John, and the others? If so, you can do so in front of Molly. You’re playing games with her safety, after all. You owe her an explanation."

Molly gasped again. "What? No one was with me today?"

Sherlock kept his gaze on Mycroft as he answered. "Don't worry. You were safe the whole time."

"But Jim Moriarty—"

"Is dead. He won't bother you anymore."

"But he—"

"Someone else is using him to try to get to me. Jim Moriarty has been dead ever since he took his life on the roof of St. Bart's the day I faked my death."

“Are you sure?”

Sherlock turned to look at her. “I swear. You are free of him. Just as I promised you would be.”

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“I tried to, but you asked to go first, remember?”

Molly nodded. “If Jim is dead, then I …” She broke off, colored self-consciously in a way he perplexingly found appealing, and glanced down.

He knew what she was going to say, but he didn’t have the strength to finish it aloud for her. Not now. Not with Mycroft here. Perhaps not even after he left. So, instead, Sherlock waited for her. If she wanted to leave now that she was free of Jim Moriarty, Sherlock wasn’t going to stand in her way. As he had told her, the decision of when or if they ended their relationship would always be hers.

Molly looked back up at him and smiled, seemingly relieved. This confused Sherlock. It also made him want to smile back at her. He stopped himself.

“Good,” she said. She cast a glimpse at Mycroft. “I guess I’ll just leave you two to it, then.”

She moved past him and headed towards the door. Sherlock had the urge to reach out to touch her, but held himself back. _Lord knew what Mycroft would make of that_. As much as he prevented himself from touching her, however, Sherlock couldn’t stop himself from sharing one last look with her before she retired to her room. Molly seemed calmer than she’d been all these weeks they’d been living together. Somehow, having her be calm soothed him as well, like there was an invisible cable of emotion linking the two of them. And even though he knew the true danger was hardly passed, he wouldn’t take that sense of security away from her for the world. He would keep her encased in a bubble of security and dare anyone to break it with him around.

When she turned the corner, he whirled to look at his brother. The two men glared at each other.

“Oh, Sherlock?” Molly called, popping her head back around the door.

He looked over at her. “Yes, Molly?”

“You will explain to me this new danger we’re in later, right?”

“New danger?” he parroted.

“Yes, you told Mycroft he was playing games with our safety, which means we are still in danger. If Jim is dead, that means someone else is out there after you. Well,” she corrected, “after _us_.”

“Us?” he asked.

“Yes. _Us_. We’re together now so whatever affects you affects me.” She nodded at him to demonstrate the seriousness of her statement. “I’ll wait up so you can explain it all to me later. OK?”

Sherlock grinned, impressed. It was quite difficult to get anything past Molly. He would do well to remember that for the future. He was also oddly thrilled with her whole us-versus-the-world mentality. He liked it. “Of course.”

With a wink, she disappeared again. Both men waited until her footsteps on the stairs silenced and they heard the _click_ of her bedroom door being closed. Then, Sherlock walked over to his chair and sat down. “Well, it seems you have a lot of explaining to do.”

“As do you. Or will there be an announcement in _The_ _Times_? What’s next? Cake tastings? House hunting? Deciding on baby names? Personally, I believe Mummy would prefer Talfryn for a boy and Bryonie for a girl. But, then again, she always did prefer to name children after distant relatives.”

“Yes and former Kings of England and famous mathematicians,” Sherlock dryly replied, “which would explain why her sons have three names each. Silly custom.”

“Indeed. So will you be informing our parents of your new _situation_ or shall I?”

“There’s nothing to tell. My apologies, brother, but as we have discussed before, the next generation for the Holmes’ line—if such a thing will ever be—will come from _your_ loins, not mine.”

“Heaven forbid,” Mycroft grunted, rolling his eyes heavenward.

Sherlock smiled stiffly, hoping Mycroft would drop the subject and get to why he was truly here. Explaining the relationship Sherlock had with Molly wasn’t something he was willing to do in detail right now. He wasn’t exactly sure of the answers himself. He only knew he was content to have things remain as they currently were. As Molly seemed equally minded, he saw no need to belabor the topic.

There was a long silence between the two men as each seemed focused on his own thoughts. Finally, this was broken by the elder Holmes.

“You should be careful,” he said. “Emotional attachments are a hazard and vulnerability in the best of situations. But for you, not only because of your chosen line of work, but also due to your nature and past history, it could be detrimental.”

“If you think I’ll start using heroin again because of Molly, you don’t know her very well. She is stricter when it comes to that than you could ever hope to be.”

“As if someone being strict with you has ever made a difference.”

Sherlock’s hands fisted. “And?”

“She’s a distraction.”

“Actually, she’s proven herself to be an invaluable asset to my work on more than one occasion. No one understands my job better than she does.”

“And when the relationship between you two ends? What then?”

“What makes you believe it will?”

“I know you, Sherlock. You’ll get bored. You _always_ get bored. That’s the problem.”

“Not with her.”

“Fine. Let’s say you’re right.” Mycroft gave a harsh, little laugh. “You’ve proven capable of pushing yourself to new heights in terms of maintaining human relationships than I ever thought possible. But women like her want things, things you will never be able to give.”

“Molly is aware of what I can give her as well as what I cannot.”

“Yes, and I’m sure she agreed to everything.”

“She has.”

“But,” Mycroft said, holding up an imperious finger, “she has been desperately infatuated with you for years, and this is the only way she can have you. Desperation is so pathetic, isn’t it? Makes one ignore common sense and agree to anything in the heat of passion. But what happens when time passes and the passion cools? Infatuation is a fleeting emotion, dear brother. Your pathologist is going to want the same things she’s always wanted. A home, security, a husband, and children. And you are going to be the same detached bastard and adrenaline junkie you have always been.” He cocked his head to the side. “I see it all now. Her infatuation wanes, and her wants and desires take center stage. She’ll have changed her mind, but you won’t have. There will be an ultimatum, an ultimatum you can’t possibly bow to. What will you do then?”

Having his every fear spoken aloud caused a ball of emotion form in his throat. Sherlock tried to swallow it as best he could. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“And when she leaves you? What happens then? You’ll be—”

Sherlock held up a hand to ward Mycroft off. “I’ll be fine. I have been alone most of my life. I survived it then and can survive it again. As I’ve told Molly, the decision to end our relationship will always lie with her. She may remain with me for as long as she wishes. When she wants to leave, I’ll let her go and move on with my life.”

Mycroft let out a grunting laugh. “You think it will be that easy?”

 _No, it’ll be the single hardest moment of my life. Point Mycroft._ But Sherlock wasn’t going down that easily. “I suppose I could allow one, bitter heartbreak to rule my life for all eternity as you have done, but where is the fun in that?” _Point Sherlock._

Mycroft ignored this, a reaction Sherlock found very telling. “You plan to let her go?” Mycroft said, “Like you did with John? You ended up on drugs within a month.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, sighing heavily through his nose. “For God’s sake, it was for a case!”

“Yes, a case which you never would’ve taken if you were in your regular mind. A case which led you to murder a man in cold blood and which almost caused your death as well.”

Sherlock’s eyes popped back open as he glowered at the man across from him. “You mean a case I wouldn’t have had to take if you had dealt with him in the first place. Magnussen was a power-hungry parasite.”

“I had everything under control.”

“You—” Sherlock stopped as something else occurred to him. Mycroft was angry, angrier than his typical worry and overly controlling nature made him. And certainly angrier than finding out his brother had a girlfriend would make him. Something was going on here. _No_ , he mentally amended. _Something’s happened. Something major._

He narrowed his gaze at Mycroft, taking in details he hadn’t bothered to before. _The always-crisp suit, wrinkled. Tie askew. One cufflink missing. Hair slightly mussed. Fatigue lines around the eyes. No tell-tale bulge in his jacket. Stress around the mouth. Slight dip of humiliation in his shoulders._ Sherlock got to his feet and strolled over to the window. Mycroft was the one who sighed loudly this time, but he ignored it as he looked out the window. As he suspected, nothing was there. The street was empty. _Interesting._ He’d known something momentous was coming, but never imagined something like this. Actually, Sherlock was more than a little impressed.

Sherlock resumed his seat, steepling his fingers. “If you’re done trying to pick a fight with me to relieve your anger, why don’t you tell me why you’re here. More importantly, why don’t you fill me in on why you’ve refused to return a single message I’ve left all day.”

Mycroft scowled at him. “You already know why.”

“Do I? Well, I have my suspicions. But it’d be so much easier if you’d just admitted it.”

“It’s your fault.”

Sherlock grinned. Never in his life had he thought to see Mycroft so defeated. It was delightful. “What is?”

“I’ve been sacked from my job.”

 _Exactly._ Sherlock, however, wasn’t through tormenting his sibling. “You’re a consultant with a minor government position. You’ve survived four prime ministers. How could you of all people be fired?”

 Mycroft ignored this. “You know how. It’s ridiculous to focus on that. You aren’t so stupid as to not realize what this means.”

“I suppose I do owe you an apology. You didn’t take the security details away after all.”

Mycroft shot to his feet, his voice loud. “That isn’t what I meant and you know it, Sherlock! Don’t you realize how much danger this puts us all in? I’ve been stripped of my authority and position.”

He put a hand against his mouth in mock shock. “What will Mummy say? The good son gets sacked from his big, fancy job. You might have to give up that grotesque mansion of yours and live in your old bedroom at home. I hope this doesn’t mean _I_ have to be the good son by default. I am _definitely_ not up to the task.”

_Game. Set. Match._

Sherlock had seen Mycroft mad on a few occasions, but he realized he’d miscalculated the depth of his brother’s fury when he found himself ducking a large, black umbrella two seconds later. _OK. Enough terrorizing Mycroft_ , he decided.

“Calm down,” he said, jumping up before anything else could be thrown.

“Calm down? We’re all in danger, and you tell me to calm down? My _reputation_ is in tatters, and you want me to calm down? We’re flying blind in dealing with the biggest threat our country has ever seen and you want me to calm down? Don’t you realize how bad this is?”

“Actually, it’s exactly what we’ve been waiting for.” Sherlock rubbed his hands together gleefully. This was better than the time he’d had the case with the woman who poisoned three of her husbands with an untraceable drug.

His words halted Mycroft’s tantrum. “Pardon?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Professor Moriarty has, at long last, made his move. It’s Christmas!” He pivoted on his heel and headed for the kitchen. Before he got there, he glanced over his shoulder. “Want some tea?”

Mycroft collapsing back on the sofa was the only response he got. Sherlock took that as a yes.


	33. The Gang's All Here

_What threat could be worse than Jim Moriarty?_

_Why did I send myself to bed when it's only half seven?_

_How did Sherlock's pants end up under my pillow?_

These were the questions plaguing Molly as she got back to her bedroom. Since Sherlock had promised to explain later about this new danger they were now facing, she put off the first question. As Sherlock and Mycroft would undoubtedly be in private discussion for some time, she answered the second question by giving herself permission to go back downstairs in about an hour. As for the third question, she dismissed it as one of those rhetorical ones which could never be truly answered, tossed the pants into the nearby laundry bin, and went about changing the sheets and bedding.

She'd remade the bed, changed into jeans and her favorite pink, fuzzy pullover, and was halfway through Chapter Thirty-Three of her book when a loud series of thumps sounded from downstairs. She would have ignored the noise completely—Sherlock was always jumping around after all—but as the clamor grew louder and was shortly accompanied by a shriek, she tossed the book aside and rose from the bed. That the shout had clearly come from a female had her racing down the stairs.

When Molly reached the lounge, she found the source of the shriek was Mrs. Hudson. The cause of the woman’s distress was John, who stood in the middle of the room grasping Sherlock in a headlock.

Mrs. Hudson, hovering at the doorway, yelped, "You stop that now, both of you! Do you hear me? Boys, I’ll not have fighting in my home."

The _boys_ , however, seemed more intent on each other than the distraught landlady.

Sherlock, struggling to free himself, groused, "You're overreacting, John."

"Overreacting, is it?" the doctor countered, constricting his hold with enough force to make Molly wince. "I've always known you were a complete and total git, but this is a new low. I ought to do the world a favor and break your neck."

"It's not that big a deal."

"Not a big deal? You wanker! You think you can do whatever you want anytime you like? Well, you can't. Not this time. You end it. Whatever this is. An experiment, a case, or bloody boredom. I don’t care. You end it now or I'll end you!"

"Never!" Sherlock thrashed against him like a child with his head caught between the staircase railings. John's iron grasp held. All the writhing brought prominent attention to the fact that Sherlock was still dressed only in trousers, which seemed a little worse for the wear. Finally, when he seemed to realize that John was too strong and determined, Sherlock let go, released a loud sigh, and said, “I'm trying to be reasonable here—"

"Ha! When have _you_ ever been reasonable?"

 Sherlock put his hands on his hips, looking all the more outlandish. "If you don't let me go, John Watson, I'm going to have no choice but to bring you to harm."

John smirked. "As a trained soldier and a war veteran, I'd love to see you try."

Without another word, Sherlock made some kind of leg sweeping move and John's knees collapsed out from under him. But even as the doctor lost his footing, he maintained his grip, causing the pair of them to tumble to the floor in a mass of wriggling limbs. Sherlock gave up freeing his head and now seemed intent on holding John's leg hostage in retaliation. He even wound both of his legs around it to keep it in place.

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Hudson cried out, gesticulating wildly at this all-male pretzel scuffling on her carpet. "Do something!"

Molly, thinking the landlady’s plea was meant for Mycroft, turned to look at him. The elder Mr. Holmes, however, was slumped on the sofa, seemingly ignoring the goings-on around him as well as the cup of tea perched precariously on his knee. It was almost as if he weren't here at all. Molly wondered what could have happened in the short time she'd been away from him to make him act this way. If she didn't know better, she would have thought him depressed—if such a thing were possible for a man like Mycroft Holmes. _Whatever's wrong with him, he'll be no help with Sherlock and John. That’s for sure_ , she thought.

Mrs. Hudson grabbed her hand, worriedly. "Molly," she said. "They must be stopped before someone gets hurt."

She opened her mouth to ask what she could possibly do to stop this insanity when someone shoved past both women. Molly looked up to realize it was Mary, who was holding out something in front of her. "Oh, yeah," she said. "Just like that, boys. Give us a show!"

The men halted and looked up at her. John squinted at his wife. "What on earth are you doing?"

"You're on the ground wrestling with a half-naked man. I’m sure your blog followers would love to see that. Actually," she said, snapping photo after photo on what Molly could now tell was her mobile, "I think the tabs would pay big money for these. Final proof that their long-held theory of the depth of your relationship with the great detective is true. Hello, latent homosexual tendencies!"

John, at this, immediately let go. Sherlock, however, refused. "So what? I couldn’t care less what reporters think of me," he grunted, retaining his hold on John even as the doctor kicked and punched to be liberated.

"Really?" Mary replied, continuing to take picture after picture. "Well, if you move another inch or so, I’d greatly appreciate it."

"And why is that?"

"Apparently, you didn't fasten your trousers before you engaged in this battle with my husband. One more inch and Molly won't be the only one to have seen the majestic Sherlock Holmes’ bum!"

Molly erupted into laughter. Not only because of Mary's threat, but also because of the quick effect it had on the situation at hand. Sherlock discharged John and moved to regain control of the trousers threatening to slip off his hips. John scooted away, doubtless trying to put distance between himself and the nearly nude man at his side.

A few minutes later, and order was completely restored. A few minutes after that, and the group were seated sedately around the lounge. A few minutes after that, and the kettle had once again boiled.

Loading a tray, Molly came around the corner from the kitchen with tea and biscuits for all. Setting the tray on the small table situated in between John’s and Sherlock’s chairs, she poured and Mrs. Hudson passed the mismatched cups out to everyone—including refreshing the one Mycroft still held. Sherlock had securely fastened his trousers, found a shirt, and smoothed down his unruly hair. Likewise, John had righted himself and settled on shooting glares at both his wife and best mate. Mary’s attention moved from Sherlock to John to Mycroft, as if assessing the situation. Mrs. Hudson seemed more at ease as she passed out tea and fussed over whether or not to run out to the shops for more biscuits. Mycroft, once more, appeared oblivious to everything. He even ignored his tea, which had been placed on the coffee table. Instead, he stared off into space, one hand fisting on and off in his lap.

When everyone had a cup, Molly poured her own. It was only when she looked up to move toward a seat that she realized there were none to be had. Sherlock and John, of course, were occupying their usual chairs while Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, and Mary had taken over the sofa. There was, of course, the spindly seat in the corner by the sofa, but no one ever sat there. It wasn’t the most comfortable of chairs, was usually reserved for clients and—just as usual—covered in Sherlockian debris. Even now, it housed a nest of newspapers, a lone running shoe, and a checkered jacket. Not wanting to bring attention to herself or her situation by cleaning off the seat, Molly decided to lean against the far wall so she could listen in on the conversation.

“So, what was all that about?” Mary asked, giving Sherlock and John her best maternal glare.

“You know what it was about,” John responded. “You got the same text I did.”

Molly cringed, knowing the text he meant. She’d already worked out that they’d been fighting over her and Sherlock’s newfound relationship, but hoped that she’d been wrong. Adding two generous dollops of sugar to her tea, she stepped towards the wall. Unfortunately, something tugged back to keep her in place. Turning, she looked to see if she’d somehow caught her jeans on something. But there was nothing.

 _Odd_ , she thought.

“Sherlock’s love life is none of your business,” Mary said.

John’s face reddened as his anger rose. “It is when he sends it out via text to half of London! It does when it involves someone like Molly.”

Molly cringed again. _Someone like me? What does that mean?_ She stepped again towards the wall. The tug happened again, hauling her back into place.

“John, don’t start. I won’t have fighting again,” Mrs. Hudson warned.

Molly peeked over her shoulder again. There was nothing there. Nothing, that is, except Sherlock’s finger curled around her belt loop. Her gaze moved to the man in question, only to find him already staring at her. She raised one brow in question. His eyes darted briefly towards his lap before turning to John, who had gone on a long rant about Janine and some case.

 _What am I to do now?_ She felt stupid standing here in the middle of John and Sherlock, holding a cup of tea. It felt as if everyone's eyes were directed towards her when she knew they were more likely focused on John. Reaching around, her hand covered Sherlock's finger. Pulling lightly, she tried to dislodge it.

He strengthened his hold. Setting down her tea on the side table, Molly grew bolder, fully attempting to dislodge his finger with both her hands. Sherlock yanked back, propelling her against him. He caught her by the hips and in one swift motion, Molly was fully seated diagonally across his lap, her back propped against the side of the chair and her legs draped over his. Her first instinct was to jump up as if her bum were on fire. Only the realization that the attention of the room was now firmly on the chair she currently occupied kept her motionless.

"Problem?" Mary asked, looking from Molly to Sherlock and back again.

"Not anymore," Sherlock replied.

"Sherlock, release her this minute," John ordered, slamming his own teacup down. "Haven't you put her through enough? Now you publically humiliate her again?"

Molly jerked, wanting to get up. Sherlock's arms snaked around her waist, keeping her in place. Instead of looking like he restraining her, however, he somehow made it look like a nonchalant cuddle. "How is seeing after Molly's well-being publically humiliating to her?" he asked. "As all the other seats were taken, I allowed her to sit in my lap." His brow crinkled in genuine confusion. "Is that not the gallant thing to do? Should I have let her recline against the far wall as she clearly intended?"

" _Gallant_? You should have stood and offered her your seat," John admonished. "Wrenching her into your lap without permission is hardly the act of a _gentleman_."

"She'd never sit here on her own. Molly has an aversion to sitting anywhere but on the sofa since she feels this chair is uniquely mine and that one is uniquely yours. Therefore, as this would have meant she would have again been leaning against the wall, I did the _gentlemanly_ thing by taking the decision out of her hands." Sherlock's explanation was delivered as concisely as all his deductions.

Molly, seeing John's jaw tighten menacingly, knew another fight was brewing. "It's fine," she rushed to say. "Sherlock's right, and I'm comfortable as I am."

"Molly, if you don't want to be there—"

"I'm her boyfriend," Sherlock interrupted. "Why wouldn't she want to sit with me?"

Molly felt her cheeks heat at the same moment a zing of happiness jolted through her. _Boyfriend? Did Sherlock really call himself that? Aloud? In front of his friends and family?_ She supposed it shouldn't have shocked her considering he'd announced their relationship to the world via text not an hour ago, but it did.

Intent on ending the argument, she snuggled against him, smiled, and said, "As I said, it’s completely fine. Sherlock, would you mind handing me my tea?”

He did so, and Molly found the next ten minutes the most awkward of her life. Conversation continued, but it was obvious she was not the only one who found the concept of Sherlock allowing a woman to be draped over him during tea—especially with that woman being Molly—terribly odd. But as Molly had lived most of her life surrounding by awkward moments, she powered through.

Finally, the tea was finished and all of the items collected and returned to the kitchen. As Molly had not been at liberty to assist in this, she looped an arm around Sherlock's shoulder in an effort to anchor herself and be a sight more comfortable. With her bulk, she was sure Sherlock's legs must have fallen asleep by now, but the detective didn't seem disturbed by her presence.

Once Mary and Mrs. Hudson had returned from the kitchen, Mary said, “Mrs. Hudson, I’m sure Abby will be waking any minute now. Would you mind terribly running downstairs to check on her? I need to have a few words with the boys here on proper behavior.”

The landlady, looking intently satisfied to know someone was taking the rabble rousers to task, got to her feet with a quick agreement. “Of course, dear.”

“There a bottle in her knapsack if she gets a bit hungry before I get down,” Mary said.

Mrs. Hudson nodded and with a final frown at Sherlock and John, left the room, closing the main door behind her. Mary sat back with her arms over her chest, glaring at both men. “Someone want to explain to me why you two were rolling around on the floor?”

Molly arched, intent on getting up to take the now available space on the sofa. Sherlock again tightened his hold, making this impossible. Without missing a beat, he answered, “Your husband attacked me without provocation.”

“Without provocation?” John countered. “You sent an obscene text to half of London!”

“I was simply making an important announcement in the most concise manner possible. It was hardly what anyone would term as 'obscene'.”

“You humiliated Molly, who has been a better friend to you than you ever deserved.”

“The only one who sees it as humiliation is you.” There was a thoughtful pause. “Is that what this is about? Jealousy? You’re afraid Molly is somehow taking your place in my life?”

“Jealousy? Why, you narcissistic little—”

Molly opened her mouth in an attempt to thwart any additional fighting, but she was stopped from speaking by Mycroft, who, coming out of his stupor, said, “Sherlock, we need to finish our discussion. Any further delay will only harm our efforts.”

Sherlock tensed the second the older man spoke. Molly knew he wasn’t a fan of his brother, but she’d never been aware of how much Mycroft’s mere voice affected Sherlock. Fighting with John, he’d been as relaxed as he was normally. One statement from Mycroft and it now felt like she was sitting on a stiff board. Trying to calm him down, she ran her fingers through the dark patch of hair collected at the nape of his neck, massaging as she went.

Sherlock lurched a bit when she first touched him, but he didn’t pull away or make her stop. Instead, like Toby when she scratched his ears, he arched into her ministrations.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft said after a few minutes.

 Coming back to himself, Sherlock said, “Say whatever it is you need to say, Mycroft. They should all be a part of this anyway. It affects them as much as us.”

This seemed like the last thing the elder Holmes wanted to do. Still, after a brief scan of his audience, he expelled a hard breath, and said, "I've been released from my employment contract."

Silence followed in the wake of this surprising announcement. Then, John said, "What exactly do you mean, 'released'?"

Mycroft's pale skin looked a sickly gray, as if everything that had made him who he was had been stolen away. Perhaps, Molly considered, it had. He opened his mouth to answer the doctor, but Sherlock, with a wide grin, beat him to it. "He's been sacked."

The elder Mr. Holmes’ shoulders sank in defeat. Without thinking, Molly grasped the patch of hair she'd been massaging and gave it a vicious jerk. Sherlock's head bounced back momentarily, and he frowned at her in shock. She frowned back, but kept silent, figuring she had said all she needed to say on the matter. Turning back to Mycroft, she said, "I'm sorry to hear that. What happened?"

Eyeing the little _tête–à–tête_ between his brother and his girlfriend, Mycroft sat up a little straighter. It wasn't until a slow and decidedly ugly smile crept over his features that Molly began to reconsider the intelligence of her actions.


	34. Earl Denton

Mycroft's gaze locked with Sherlock's. The younger Holmes tensed again under this scrutiny, but didn't look away. Mycroft sneered in triumph, arching a brow in challenge. Sherlock jerked Molly closer and glared back. Molly watched all of this unfold, like some kind of extreme tennis match. Apparently, her mute defense of Mycroft had revived some past row between the siblings, a row Mycroft believed himself to be winning.

"How does the great Mycroft Holmes get the sack?" John asked, seemingly missing the tacit battle unfolding before him. "Doesn't the Prime Minister take his orders from you?"

"Not anymoreeee," Sherlock sing-songed, pressing a determined kiss against Molly's temple.

Obviously, the peck was a dig at Mycroft. Molly did nothing. She was too anxious to speak, act, or barely move. She had never felt more awkward, unsure, or out of her depth about what was happening around her in her life. Instinct and temper told her to elbow her new boyfriend in the ribs to demonstrate her dislike at being used as his pawn. But, by doing so, she worried she might inadvertently make herself Mycroft's pawn instead. So, she remained as she was and kept observing the goings-on. There would be time to sort things with Sherlock later.

"Give the Prime Minister orders?" Mycroft echoed self-importantly at John. "That’s preposterous. I was a minor government official. Nothing more." An incredulous silence followed in the wake of his statement, growing louder and louder until he hastily added, "I was very good at my job and proved useful to my country on more than one occasion. In any case, the focus of this discussion should be on determining what is to be done now. After all, without benefit of the _privileges_ my former position provided, the game—as it were—has changed considerably. We are all more vulnerable now than ever before."

"But how were you let go in the first place?" John asked.

Mary jumped in. "It's Moriarty, isn't it? He's somehow behind this."

This startled Molly. "Moriarty is dead," she said, confused.

All eyes darted to her. The awkward silence was back, deafening and, this time, projected directly at her. Then, they looked to Sherlock to see how he would respond.

Undoubtedly, Molly was mistaken. _But how can this be? Sherlock said—_ Slowly, she turned to look at the man on whose lap she currently rested. "You told me Jim was dead." Fear and a rising anger threatened to overwhelm her. Had he lied to her? About something so important? What would she do if he did?

Sherlock's expression was guileless, his voice assured. "Jim _is_ dead. It's his brother Mary means."

"His brother?" Molly repeated dumbly, relief at not having been lied to overriding her ability to comprehend things rapidly. "Jim has—I mean _had_ —a brother?"

"Yes."

"And this other Moriarty is after you?"

"Yes."

"Because Jim is dead and the brother blames you?"

Sherlock shrugged as if the reason was of little consequence. "Most likely."

She shook her head slowly back and forth, unable to wrap her brain around this new situation in which they had found themselves. "This is like a bad spaghetti western," she muttered more to herself than anyone else. "What's next? A shootout at the OK Corral?"

A pair of snorts filled the air as John and Mary enjoyed her sarcastic attempt at humor.

John smiled at her. "Does that make Sherlock Wyatt Earp then? Can I be Doc Halliday?"

She smiled in return, unable to help herself. "Only if I can be Annie Oakley."

Mary laughed. "Does that make me Calamity Jane then?"

"Is there a point to all of this?" Sherlock asked in a haughty, bored tone he typically employed when he didn't understand the direction of the conversation going on around him and wanted desperately to change the subject.

Returning to the business at hand, Mary leaned forward, nearly hanging off the couch. "It _is_ Professor Moriarty who is behind all of this, right? He got Mycroft sacked. You told John the professor was smarter than Jim. And, seeing as how Jim was able to break into the Tower of London, the Bank of England, and Pentonville Prison with barely a hand raised, it would be child's play for his older brother to get a _minor government official_ fired."

Sherlock nodded. "Exactly. We were waiting for Moriarty's move, and now here it is."

“The question is what to do now,” Mycroft said, his tone belying his irritation. "Something I have been _trying_ to discuss since I arrived," He checked his watch, "more than ninety minutes ago."

“Don’t you two already have a plan in place?” John asked.

Silence was his answer. Both men looked decidedly uncomfortable.

John pressed on. “Are you telling me that while the brilliant Holmes brothers have discussed Professor Moriarty at length on many occasions, neither of you ever considered this could be a conceivable outcome and thus formulated a response accordingly?” He stared aghast at them. "Really?"

Sherlock smirked. “I warned Mycroft of this possibility five years ago, but my dear older brother has always considered himself infallible and his position secure."

"I _am_ infallible. My position, however, has never been secure," Mycroft replied through gritted teeth. "Your wild cases, ridiculous theories, and over-the-top antics have constantly threatened to unseat me."

"Theories like Professor Moriarty? I take it you _do_ believe he exists now?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft straightened his coat with a swift jerk of his hands. “Obviously.”

“So that would make you _wrong_ and me …?”

John interjected, “Sherlock, stop being an egomaniacal arse and get to the point.”

“Fine.” Sherlock released Molly and slipped out from under her with the ease of a seal diving into the ocean. The whole maneuver was completed in seconds, leaving her sitting alone in his seat and him on his feet.

He set about his usual pacing. “This move tells us a lot about the man with whom we are dealing. I’ve always believed the professor to be ruthlessly intelligent and had important connections. How else would he have been able to hide from us for so long?” He waved his hand in the air. “But to take out Mycroft in this manner means he was concerned Mycroft would be able to identify him eventually and sought to eliminate this possibility. It also means he wanted us without protection and the various intelligence always at Mycroft’s fingertips.” He stopped suddenly and turned to stare at the older man. “It also means his connections go even higher than I first suspected.”

“You don’t mean …” Mycroft grew an alarming shade of white.

“There can be no other answer.”

“No, I refuse to believe that.”

“Is it so impossible?”

“Yes.”

“As impossible as Professor Moriarty's existence?”

Mycroft coughed to clear his throat. “And if this does go _that_ high?”

“Then we are all in more danger than ever.”

“But—”

“Hello?” John intruded again. “Remember the rest of us in the room? What do you mean? Moriarty has connections to whom?”

The brothers stared at each other a long moment before they answered, in unison, "Earl Denton."

"Who is that?" Molly asked.

"Dear God! You mean—" Mary said at the same moment Molly spoke, the older woman’s face a kaleidoscope of emotion. "But how can someone get to _him_? He's basically the uncrowned King of England."

"Who is he?" John asked, seeming as clueless as Molly felt.

"Magnussen?" Mary said in answer to some unspoken question from Sherlock. "If anyone had the goods on someone like Denton, it would have to be Magnussen."

"Unlikely," Mycroft said.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, especially considering that Magnussen preferred to keep any uncovered secrets in his mind palace. If he did find anything, he took it with him to the grave. But you are on the right track. Whatever Moriarty has on Denton must be big indeed."

"If Denton were involved in something, I would have known," Mycroft blustered.

"He was practically your boss for twenty years, Mycroft. I’m fairly confident that if the man wanted to keep secrets from you, he could."

Mycroft crossed his arms over his chest. "Hardly."

Molly frantically searched her memory. She wasn't generally familiar with the titled members of the aristocracy, at least not those who didn't cover the pages of the tabs. She had not—to her memory's credit—ever come across the Earl of Denton. This was especially strange considering Mary had called him the "uncrowned King of England." _Then again,_ she told herself, _you didn't know the name Moriarty before you met Sherlock either; so maybe it doesn't mean anything._

"Can you lot stop having a conversation as if the rest of us know what you’re going on about? Who in bloody hell is the Earl of Denton?" He looked at Mary. " _The uncrowned King of England_?"

"A nickname, due to the sheer amount of power he wields," she replied.

It was Mycroft who explained more fully. "Frederick Elliot Arthur Denton, 8th Earl Denton, 9th Viscount Evansley, is a man of considerable power, influence, and wealth. He is known as one of the keenest minds in the world, a genius in nearly every subject. He is a physicist, historian, economist, geologist, and esteemed neuroscientist. In his spare time, he dabbles in antiquities; the poetry of Alfred, Lord Tennyson; and military strategy."

"If he's so smart," John asked, "Why haven't I heard of him before?"

"He doesn’t seek fame or notoriety. His main interest lies in acquiring knowledge, any kind, and building on that knowledge to make suppositions," Sherlock said.

Molly's eyes widened at the implications. "Suppositions about what?"

"Everything," Mary answered. "There is no field off limits to him. But he is mostly interested in forecasting future world events. He has accurately predicted the timing and duration of the last two economic recessions, the outcomes of assorted wars and skirmishes, and the detection of a new subatomic particle suspected to be the Higgs boson—just to name a few. To say the man's a genius is an insult. He makes geniuses look like idiots. Even Mycroft and Sherlock can't compete with his level of aptitude or array of education."

John snorted in disbelief. "Again, if he's so bloody brilliant, why haven't I heard of him? The smart ones always come after Sherlock sooner or later."

Sherlock shook his head. "Actually, the truly smart ones know better. Why incite me unless you wish to be caught or are interested in testing your acumen? The wiser course of action is to give me a wide swath. You'd have a better chance of getting away with your misdeeds, which is why Professor Moriarty has kept out of my way. Doubtless, he would have remained beneath my notice entirely had it not been for Jim."  

"Thankfully," Mycroft said with a bitter smile, "Denton uses his 'genius' for good. He works with national and global leaders to bring about positive change in the world. Having inherited his wealth and title from his father—not to mention all of the pounds he’s collected from his inventions—he's never cared a wit about money or position."

"And, since every person of note in the world practically beats down the man's door incessantly seeking advice, he has more power than anyone could ever dream. He is a god, the living and breathing example of the phrase 'Knowledge is power.' He could rule anywhere if he desired, but he doesn't want to. He consults with the government because he likes to. Mostly, he’s only interested in increasing his base of knowledge so he can make more predictions.”

“It’s his game of choice.”

All eyes fell on Molly after she said this.

“Game of choice?” Sherlock asked.

“You smart boys always like your games. It keeps your brains running in top form. For you, it’s solving the impossible cases; for Mycroft, it’s moving people like they’re pieces on a chess board; for Jim, it was crime; and for this Denton fellow, it’s predictions.”

No one else said anything as they digested this. Sherlock was the first to react. A wide grin suddenly split his face. “You’re the brilliant one, Molly Hooper,” he announced. He leaned over, taking her face in his hands to kiss her swiftly on the mouth. He turned to Mycroft. “That’s it! Don’t you see?”

Mycroft, apparently, did. He nodded and straightened in his seat. “So now we know where to begin.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock agreed, rushing off to his bedroom.

John’s face fell into his hands in exasperation. “I’m going to say it again,” he grumbled. “What are you talking about?”

“Molly shook something loose in Sherlock’s brain,” Mary answered, patting her husband comfortingly on the shoulder. “He has a clue.”

“A clue?” John said, his head popping up in attention.

Sherlock returned to the room, fully dressed and pulling on his usual coat. “A clue I’m going to follow up on. Are you coming with me, John?”

John got to his feet. “Of course. My family are in danger.”

Sherlock grinned. “And you love the chase as much as I do.”

John rolled his eyes and turned to his wife. “I’ll be home when I can.”

“You aren’t leaving me behind. It’s my family in danger as well. If you’re following up on clues, I am coming with,” Mary asserted, standing up.

“You can’t,” John contended. “What about Abby?”

“Mrs. Hudson is watching her.”

“She can’t watch her all night. She’s an old woman, and it’s getting late as it is.”

Mary opened her mouth to argue, but stopped herself when she didn’t have an answer.

“I can watch her,” Molly offered. She still wasn’t fully sure what was going on, but she did want to help in any way that got this case closed as soon as possible.

“Thank you, Molly,” John assured, “but you have to work in the morning and Mary is still breast-feeding. She can’t be away from the baby that long.”

“I expressed milk before we came over. I’ll be fine for another few hours. Besides, once Abby has her midnight bottle, she’ll sleep to around 4 in the morning. I’ll be back long before then.” She looked to Molly. “If that’s OK?”

Molly quietly acquiesced.

“But Mary—” John said.

“I’m going. That’s it,” she interrupted, abruptly ending the debate.

With an abrupt nod, Sherlock scurried out the door and down the stairs, more excited than a schoolboy on holiday. Molly shook her head as she watched the irritated couple file out behind him. She got to her feet, deciding to get a quick bite before she went about her babysitting duties.

She padded into the kitchen and made herself a sandwich, telling herself over and over again that it was a waste to worry. Sherlock and the rest would be back in no time. They would solve this … whatever _this_ was … and all would be right with the world again. Putting her supper on a plate and grabbing herself a large glass of juice—and a container of sorbet for good measure—she toddled back into the lounge intent on busying herself with a little telly. Then, once her stomach was full, she’d collect Abby. The baby would keep her occupied until they all returned or until she fell asleep—whichever came first.

Unfortunately, as she rounded the corner, Molly realized she wasn’t alone. And, from the resolute expression on Mycroft’s face as he stared at her from his seat on the sofa, she was going to be far more occupied than she’d originally believed.

“I should have gotten more sorbet,” she muttered.


	35. The Chat

"I hope you don’t mind, but I felt it was time we had a,” Mycroft paused as if searching for the right word, “ _chat_."

He wore a sickeningly pleasant smile as he said this, crossing one leg confidently over the other as if preparing to settle in for a while. Molly gulped, feeling like she'd just been force-fed a cup of hot lead. She hadn't felt this apprehensive since she got in trouble in primary school for punching Basil Kingsley in the eye after he tried to kiss her.

"Oh—OK then." She shuffled to the other end of the sofa, wanting to be as far away from him as she could get. She sat, suddenly remembering the plate and container of sorbet she held. "Can I get you anything?"

"No, thank you. But please don’t let my presence keep you from enjoying your meal, especially your dessert. This is, after all, a particularly _stressful_ time."

It was one thing to have to deal with Sherlock deducing everything about her in mere seconds. That she had gotten used to. But Mycroft was a whole different kettle of fish. There was something cold and calculating in everything he said, as if he weren't just deducing what someone was doing now, but also what they would be doing three days from now. Worse, it felt as if he were memorizing all the information he collected so he could hold it over her head later. It was both intimidating and irritating since it left her feeling completely within his control.

 _Looks like I’m a pawn on a chessboard whether I like it or not._ Mustering her courage, she put aside her plate and focused on the sorbet. Two bites of the tart, creamy treat later, she felt calmer. Instead of waiting for him to launch whatever attack his was planning, she took the lead. "I take it this is about my relationship with Sherlock?"

He clasped his hands firmly in his lap. "You're far more perceptive than he gives you credit for."

The statement sounded like a compliment, but Molly knew better. It was weapon. Its purpose was to inflate her vanity, play on her insecurities, make her distrustful of Sherlock, and establish Mycroft as an ally. If it hadn't been for the fact that she'd known Sherlock as long as she had and, as such, had become well versed in the subtle art of manipulation, she might have found herself to susceptible to Mycroft. But she did know Sherlock. More importantly, she knew just how much he hated when his older brother meddled in his life. He'd come in to her lab complaining about such things on more than one occasion. Doubtless, Sherlock would be upset if he knew about this little _chat_.

But as much as she understood Sherlock's feelings on this discussion, she also understood Mycroft's. He had concerns about the viability of this new relationship as well as whether it was in the best interest of his younger sibling. If Sherlock—with his wild past, emotional displays, and reckless decision-making strategies—were her family, she supposed she would feel the same way. She wouldn't have cornered Sherlock's girlfriend like this, but she would have worried.

Uncrossing his legs, Mycroft stood. He walked to John's chair, pulled a small, brown notebook from his coat pocket, and sat. He was positioned directly across from her now, making avoiding him harder. _Which is his aim_ , she thought, chomping down on another fortifying spoonful of dessert.

After perusing the contents of the notebook for a moment, he looked up and said, "In the beginning, you were a mere three sentences in here. Now you encompass three full pages. Remarkable. Only John Watson has more. Of course, this doesn't include your comprehensive background report, which was completed once it became apparent Sherlock would be working with you on a recurrent basis."

Her fingers tightened on the spoon. "One can never be too careful, I suppose."

"Indeed." His head cocked to the side as he watched her. "You don't seem surprised by this."

"You've always struck me as a thorough man."

"Your background is quite noteworthy."

"Clearly not if it occupies less pages than that of John Watson," she said before she could stop herself.

A strange hissing noise erupted from Mycroft, half breathy snort, half cough. It took Molly a bit to figure out he'd laughed. What was so humorous about what she'd said? Under normal circumstances, mirth was something which would melt the tension in any situation. Here and now, however, it heightened it to an unbearable level.

His attention returned to the book. Mycroft retrieved a pen from the pocket of his jacket and added a quick notation. Molly desperately wanted to know what information those pages held about her. At the same time, she didn't. Instinct told her ignorance in this case was truly bliss.

She stabbed at the carton of sorbet, dismayed to find it nearly empty. She wished he'd get on with whatever this was. The waiting was torture. Then again, that was likely the point of all of this.

"If you're going to try to bribe me to stay away from Sherlock, you shouldn't waste your breath," she said when she couldn't stand the silence any longer.

Mycroft looked up, brows rounded in surprise. "Why would I do that?”

“It’s what you did before.”

The little laugh sounded again. “And how did you reach that conclusion?”

“Who else would send a leggy brunette with an abnormal attachment to her mobile to offer me an obscene amount of money to guarantee Sherlock unfettered access to my lab?”

“An offer, I’m told, you refused most vehemently.”

“No one controls my lab but me. Besides, giving Sherlock access isn’t the only thing you would have wanted.”

“Perhaps,” he agreed. “But you still let Sherlock in. Were his feeble attempts at flirtation really _that_ good?”

Molly hated the heated blush creeping up her cheeks. “I assist Sherlock because I'm interested in his work.”

“Yes, but you've always been more interested in _him_. Isn’t that correct?” His eyes narrowed at her. “You’ve believed yourself to be in love with him for a long time now.” He shook his head in dismay. “Not smart.”

“Because he’ll never love me back?” she challenged. “I know that, and I don’t care.”

 “Come now. Are you sure that's the case? In the back of your little mind, are you telling me you aren't imagining that you'll somehow be different from all the rest? That you're the one who can tame the untamable, to make the lusty rapscallion change his ways and settle down?" He gave a cynical snort. "It won’t happen, you know. Even if such fairy tales could come true, Sherlock will never change who he is. Even if he wanted to, he can’t.”

The mere idea of the stalwart consulting detective being a lusty rapscallion was laughable, but no smile registered on Molly’s face. “I have no interest in changing Sherlock. I like him just as he is.”

“Perhaps for now that is true, but one day you’ll want more.”

“I have no interest in _more_. Now or ever.”

“Your romantic history suggests differently. You were engaged to be married a few months ago, were you not? To a," His eyes went to the book, "Thomas—"

“I broke it off,” she interrupted.

He grinned as if she’d unwittingly moved into a trap he’d set. “Yes, because of your feelings for Sherlock.”

A surge of fury ran through Molly. Why must he play these silly games? Molly speared her spoon into the carton, but found it empty. “Why don’t you get to the point, Mycroft? Whatever you want, just tell me.”

When she looked up, she found his gaze locked on the now-crushed container in her hands. “Perhaps I should get you another sorbet?” he asked, mockingly.

“Perhaps you should get one for yourself,” she snapped. “Getting sacked is stressful business, or so I’ve been told.”

He blinked once. That was the only sign he gave that her words had any impact. Then, as if he’d uncovered something thrilling, he grinned triumphantly and said, “The kitten, it seems, has claws.”

Molly wondered what he would think if she threw the empty dessert container at his arrogant head. _No_ , she mentally corrected. _The plate. It’ll hurt more._

But she didn’t throw either. Maintaining her control with an iron fist, she stared at Mycroft and waited for him to continue.

He sighed like a child being denied a toy. “I’m merely trying to be of service. I have an inordinate amount of respect for you. You are a woman of impeccable honor and loyalty. When faced with almost losing your job in the wake of Sherlock's forged death, you remained silent. Even Dr. Watson was surprised that you’d been a part of it. You didn’t tell anyone, did you?”

“Of course not.”

“Not even your fiancé?” He gave a condescending little _tsk_. “That must have been quite the sticky wicket when Sherlock returned from the dead.” He waited on her response, but when she refused to give one, he added, “My _point_ is that you deserve a better boyfriend. You deserve a man who can return your feelings.”

“I don’t want that.”

He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “A man who can settle down with you.”

“Perhaps I don’t want to settle down. Has that ever crossed your _brilliant_ mind?”

He examined her face, as if looking for an answer to some question. Then, when he couldn’t seem to uncover it himself, he said, “If it isn’t about love and it isn’t about settling down, then why are you with Sherlock?”

She gave a careless shrug. “Maybe I’m just using him for sex.”

Looking back later, Molly knew that's when she lost control. It was like Mycroft was intent on rubbing salt in her wounds over and over again until she begged for mercy. Something had shattered inside of her, and she wasn't going to beg—not to him or anyone. Her relationship with Sherlock was complicated, and she was the last one to say she had it all figured it out. But it was hers—hers and Sherlock's—and no one was going to question it. If it ended, it would be because of a decision she or Sherlock made, not because a nosy, ex- _minor government official_ decided to dissect it like it was a research project. Mycroft and his concerns could go hang.

Setting her plate and hollow carton aside on the couch, Molly sat back, folding her arms over her chest. Mycroft had remained mute throughout all of this, as if her crass statement had rendered him speechless. Maybe it had. She didn't care. "So why don't we just boil this down to what you want. I've too much integrity for you to suspect I’m a security risk for Sherlock or this case, and I sincerely doubt you give a damn whether or not I end up with a broken heart. What do you _want_ , Mycroft?"

His eyes zeroed in on her, his expression threatening. "I would caution you against speaking to me in such a manner, Madam. It's always better to remain on my good side. I'm sure I don't need to remind you of my position."

"You mean the position you lost when you were fired?"

He blinked once. _Got you,_ Molly thought.

"No," he countered, "my position in my family. Sherlock may not always like what I have to say or approve of my methods, but he does know one thing. When I make a deduction, I am never wrong." He gave a dramatic pause as he fussed with the sleeve of his coat. "It would be a shame if you found yourself unwillingly secured away in a safe house throughout the duration of this case. I may not have the resources at my fingertips that my former position once afforded, but I still have one vital resource left: Money. In fact, I have enough to see you locked away for a long, long time."

"Sherlock already tried to send me away. It didn't work then. It won't now."

"Make no mistake, Molly." His use of her first name was startling. "My brother cares deeply for you—a great deal more than even he is aware. If I deem your life is in peril, there will be nothing you can do to sway him."

As anxious as this news made her, Molly picked up on something else—something more important. "That's what this is about, isn't it? You're worried he does care for me. He doesn’t. Not like that.”

“He does.”

“And you think these supposed _feelings_ he has for me will be a problem in how he solves this case? They won't be."

Mycroft shook his head. "You're a distraction, Molly Hooper. A large and complex one. Distractions for someone like Sherlock are dangerous. Distracted, he misses something important. Distracted, he doesn't solve the case in time. Distracted, people die. Do you understand? He's already months behind as it is."

"And you think that's my fault? He said he was waiting for Moriarty to make a move."

"Since when does Sherlock wait for anything? Since when doesn't he dive in headfirst?"

"He ran out the second he got a lead. Having me here wasn't a distraction."

"If you weren't here, he would have figured out the connection to the earl far sooner."

"Before you were sacked, you mean?"

Mycroft's glare stabbed her. Clearly, that was a button he didn’t like her pressing. _Too bad._ That's when she knew she'd gotten to his true point. She matched his glare with one of her own. "Where are your distractions?"

"Excuse me?"

"You’re as smart as Sherlock—or smarter as some say. Why didn't you figure this all out yourself?"

He straightened rigidly in the chair. "I _am_ smarter. Never mistake that. But level of intelligence matters little when it comes to skill in the field. Sherlock has proven himself particularly adept at putting together data in such a way as to draw a reasonable conclusion."

"Likewise, you are skilled at reviewing data to draw a conclusion—most times faster than Sherlock. So, why not do it all yourself? Why count on an immature, temperamental, somewhat-former drug addict who loves nothing more than to undermine you at every turn?"

"Because I have more important things to do.”

“Meaning you don’t like getting your hands dirty. Why do that when you have someone else to do it for you? Isn’t that why you like your minor government position so much?”

 Mycroft sighed again, his irritation clearly growing. “On the battlefield, the general does not stand at the front line.”

And that, in a nutshell, confirmed what she’d suspected. She didn’t respond, which Mycroft seemed to take as an agreement on her part.

“Furthermore, Sherlock's brain is particularly formatted to review the data again and again until he reaches the correct answer. I know because I’ve trained him in this since his infancy. Like a bloodhound, he never stops. It’s his tenacity and perseverance that are needed now."

"He's not a dog."

"Excuse me?"

"Sherlock is not a dog to be trained and rewarded or punished depending on whether or not he is obedient to your commands. And that's your true problem with me, isn't it? I remind him that he is human and not some animal at your beck and call, an animal you're convinced is only good at one thing. Sherlock deserves better than that."

If looks could kill, Molly knew she'd be meeting her maker about now. Mycroft's glare had hardened to stone, his cheeks were flushed red, and his lips compressed into an unimaginably thin line. His obvious fury didn't leave her feeling nervous though. If anything, she felt more relaxed and in control than she had previously. Mycroft might think he knew her from whatever he had written down in that infernal book of his, but he was wrong.

Without a word, his eyes closed. He sat back in the chair, hands grasping each arm of the chair tightly. He inhaled heavily, a spasm ricocheting through his body. Then, like a computer rebooting, he was quiet for a moment before opening his eyes. Once he did, the expression on his face was placid, all traces of anger gone.

 _How in bloody hell did he do that?_ It left her feeling as if an alien had just invited himself to tea. Warily, she scooted to the edge of her seat and waited to see what he would do next.

Finally, he spoke. “As much as you care for my brother and no doubt, feel that you know him, you don't. You can never truly know him because you have no possible way of understanding how he sees the world, what it’s like to be trapped inside a mind like his. It’s like a high-performance engine that is always running. You can never shut it off. _Never_. Day in and day out, it is always running until you feel as if you’ve gone insane. Because of this, he is and always has been on a path of self-destruction. I noticed this early on and sought through my training to help him channel his energies in a more fecund manner."

"Why did you feel the decision was yours to make?"

"Who better than someone equally afflicted?" He blinked, seeming almost human for a moment as if he'd inadvertently revealed more than he'd initially planned. "We all have our crosses to bear. The best we can do is recognize our weaknesses early on so we know what to avoid and play to our strengths in order to be productive in the world. I have seen what happens if a mind like Sherlock's is left unrestricted. You think Moriarty is dangerous? You have no idea." He inhaled as if the memory were particularly painful. "I won't let that happen to Sherlock, no matter how much he bristles at my interference, no matter what I need to do to prevent it, no matter who stands in my way. Do you understand?"

"Yes." And she did understand. She wasn't a pawn on a chessboard in this, after all. She was nothing more than a piece of lint on Sherlock’s trousers.

“Good,” Mycroft said. “Then let’s begin.”


	36. Distractions

Molly shot up in bed. Blearily, she looked around the small room, not recognizing at first where she was. In a flash, it came back to her. _Sherlock's flat._ _My bedroom._ She paused, listening for sounds or any clue as to what might have awakened her. But as ever, the flat was silent. She searched her memory, trying to recall if she'd been having a nightmare. There was nothing. One minute, she'd been asleep, the next she wasn't.

She sighed. _Great, and I have to work today._ Yawning, she stretched, taking a mental inventory of how she felt. Exhausted, but wired at the same time. _Same as yesterday._ Sleep, up until this point, had been fitful at best. But she supposed that was normal considering the fallout from her _chat_ with Mycroft as well as the resulting discussion which followed between her and Mary when the older woman returned a few hours later to claim her child. The sheer amount of danger they were all in was daunting, and every day Sherlock didn't return home brought that glaring fact more to the forefront of her mind.

Turning to the bedside clock, Molly was amazed to find that it was half four in the morning. She'd slept a full four hours, which was an hour longer than she'd averaged per night in the near week since Sherlock had left. _That, at least, is something._

Knowing returning to sleep would be next to impossible, she got out of bed and dressed. In stocking-feet, she padded down the stairs in search of her morning dose of caffeine. That and worry were her main sources of energy these days. The lounge was eerily still and dark, the only waning light coming from the street lamps outside the window. The lack of noise should have made her feel peaceful, but it only reminded her that Sherlock wasn't here. Not wanting to wake the slumbering landlady below with heavy footfalls, she tip-toed into the kitchen. She winced at the sudden brightness as she turned on the overhead light and went about making coffee. Ten minutes later, the beverage was prepared, and after switching back off the light, she picked her way through the dark back to the lounge door, intent on returning to her bedroom to read for a while to keep her mind busy.

"Why are you up so early?"

Molly yelped, one hand against her heavily beating heart. "Sherlock? You're home."

"Why are you awake? It isn't even dawn yet." A strange, unmelodious sound followed this.

"I couldn't sleep anymore," she answered when she had recovered herself, frenziedly peering about the lounge to try to locate him in the shadows. The chairs by the fireplace were soon deemed empty. As her eyes better adjusted, she was able to make out a silhouetted lump on the sofa. _That has to be him._ It took everything she had not to dive on top of him to prove to herself he was really, truly there, but she didn't. Sherlock, after all, wasn't one for affectionate reunions.

"Why are you sitting here in the dark?" she asked, blowing on her hot coffee to try to appear blasé with his unexpected arrival.

"It helps me think." The noise came again. A sharp, plucky sound.

 _What is that?_ But, instead of inquiring about it, she said, "How long have you been home?"

"What time is it now?"

"After four."

"Two hours."

"Are you hungry?"

"No."

"When's the last time you ate something?"

"What day is it?"

"Saturday."

"I ate yesterday. I'm fine."

"When did you last sleep?"

"I'm not tired."

"It's quite late."

"Or quite early, depending on your angle of perception. Do you have any other questions or are you done playing Mummy yet?"

A heavy hush settled over the room in the wake of his burst of annoyance. Molly had many more questions, but knew better than to test Sherlock's patience with them. There was so much to wonder over, so many things to fret about. But there was nothing more important than Sherlock solving this case. His answers must come now. Her answers would come later. Molly wasn't sure when, but she knew the information would present itself sooner or later. It always did when it came to her associations with this enigmatic detective. So, with a resolute nod that she wasn't sure he could even discern, she turned to the door.

"Where are you going?"

"To my room. You like to be alone when you think. I thought it might be best if I—"

"Sit with me."

She frowned, unsure of what was happening here. She flicked on a neighboring light so she could see better and winced again as the glare flooded the room. Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa, his back slouched haphazardly against the arm and a blanket trimmed in blue ribbon tossed over the bottom half of him. Molly half thought she recognized the covering, but couldn't remember where from. Sherlock held his violin against his chest, absently tugging at the strings. That, at least, explained the sound she'd heard. His reclining position only made her want to stretch herself out next to him. She yearned to have him hold her, to kiss him and make love with him, and to lose herself in him until all of her worries were dispelled.

But she was being silly, and she knew it. There were rules now. She must keep to those—no matter what Sherlock might do to sway her. So instead of doing as she wanted, Molly perched on the sofa arm furthest from him. Setting his violin aside, Sherlock pushed himself forward until he was fully sitting up. His long legs were straight out in front of him, bare toes peeping out from beneath the blanket.

"Stop staring at my feet."

Her head shot up in alarm. "Sorry." Her eyes sought purchase elsewhere, but the irritated expression currently residing on his face did not welcome her so she focused on his shirt instead. The cotton, dark green t-shirt was too big for him, especially about the neck. The gaping hole sagged to one side, giving her an uncontested view of one, luminous collarbone arched perfectly against the pale creaminess of his shoulder. The little hollow at the base of his throat that she'd loved kissing seemed more predominant this morning, which was—

"Would you like to have sex?"

He might as well have kicked her off the sofa. The effect of his words was just as pronounced. Molly choked on her tongue, almost dropped her coffee, and fought to keep her seat. When she finally got her wits about her enough to shift her attention to Sherlock once more, she found him stretched out again, this time with his arms stacked behind his head as he studied her.

Slowly, one dark brow arched. "Do I take that as a 'Yes'?"

"N-n-n-o!" Molly hastily gulped at her coffee and ignored the fact that she burned her tongue by doing so. Instead, she straightened, stared at him head on, and said, "Definitely not." It was the height of lunacy that, after all they had experienced together, after all the conversations they'd had, and all the sex they’d had, she would feel this tongue-tied in his presence. But here she was. Sometimes, she truly hated the power he had over her, and, more than anything, she wished she had half as much power over him.

He smirked as if he could read her thoughts, almost daring her to even consider having control over the supreme Sherlock Holmes. There had been times when Molly had thought she might have some sway over him. Days like this informed her otherwise.

She frowned at him and changed the subject to one more befitting their situation.

"Sherlock, about Professor Moriarty—"

"You're clearly having trouble concentrating. Physical congress has helped you in the past."

 _What? Is he still on that_? "And you would know that how? Any time you and I have ... indulged ... we didn't work afterwards."

"You always seemed more alert and able to focus on those mornings when you had _indulged_ ..." He smiled as he used her word, "with Tom. I would assume the same concept holds true for me. Or, because it's with me, I presume it would have an even greater effect on you."

"And why is that?"

He shrugged. "Because you were still in love with me while you were with Tom. As much as your relations with him might have temporarily inoculated you against your feelings for me, it never held for long. It stands to reason that, by having sex with the man with whom you _are_ in love, the affect received would last longer in terms maintaining your focus for work. In fact, I believe intercourse with me could give you enough concentration for full month."

He grinned wolfishly, giving her a saucy wink. Molly, intent on maintaining control, forced herself to look away. His arrogance knew no bounds, and she wanted him all the more for it—something he was more than aware of.

 _The man with whom you are in love_. There was something about the carefree way he spoke about her feelings for him just now which sent a glorious happiness and warmth spreading over her. It reminded her of how he’d called himself her boyfriend and how much he seemed to have accepted this relationship between them.

She hid her smile behind her coffee cup before taking another drink. Molly then returned her gaze to Sherlock, who was looking at her like the cat who ate the canary. She wondered what he would say if she told him his expression reminded her of Mycroft. "You certainly make a rational argument."

Just as he reached forward and removed the throw from his legs in preparation to come to her, she added, "Of course, your logic is flawed."

He paused, scowling. "How so?"

"Well, considering you and I _indulged_ five days ago, that would mean I am as inoculated as I can be—for at least the next month. Therefore, I doubt another session would do much to cure my concentration issues."

Taking to his knees, he closed the distance between them in seconds until he was nearly on top of her, the familiar feral quality ablaze in his eyes. She knew it so well now; knew it meant how desperately he wanted her. Her heart slammed in her chest. _Dear Lord._ Still, she retained both her seat and her composure. "Of course, if you needed a little something to help you work through the various issues in this latest case, I always endeavor to be of assistance." She took a nonchalant sip of her coffee as she waited for his response. "You know, if _you_ needed it."

Sherlock's fingers closed around the cup until she had no choice but to relinquish it to him. He took a long swallow of the beverage. Then, with a grimace that displayed his disapproval over the lack of sugar, he plonked the mug on the floor and pulled her into his arms.

With a soft gasp, she fell with him until they were both lengthwise across the sofa. She was in his embrace. Trying to get comfortable in this somewhat awkward state of events, she wrapped her arms around his neck. He leaned down to nuzzle her, kissing her neck and along the line of her shoulder.

"So, is that a yes?" Molly said, trying to stay coherent. As much as she wanted to sink into Sherlock like a warm bath after a cold, blustery day, she knew answers were paramount right now. Her apprehension about the danger facing them had robbed her of sleep and she couldn't help but feel that by kissing her as he was, Sherlock was wasting time when he should have been figuring out solutions.

He pulled away, turning them both so she was below him. He scanned her. Finally, when he found whatever he was seeking, he sighed and, sagging against her in defeat, his face dropped into the crook of her neck.

"Molly, you're driving me crazy."

His words were muffled, but she understood him. "How am I driving you crazy? Because I'd rather you concentrate on Moriarty than have sex with me?"

His head popped back up. "You think it possible for me to concentrate with you as desperately worried as you are?"

She looked up at him in surprise. It was such an unconventional thing for him to say. Quite un-Sherlockian. "You can't think because I'm worried?"

Surprise registered on his face for the barest of seconds, as if he couldn't believe what he'd just admitted or that she would take such heavy meaning from what he'd said—the meaning anyone would have taken—before being replaced with his usual haughty veneer. "Don't make more of this than it is." He softened his rebuke by tucking a loose wisp of hair behind her ear. "I often found my concentration compromised when John was upset."

"I'm not John."

The words hung between them for an impossible length of time. Molly didn't look away from him. She knew better. No, he needed to know she meant what she said as well as everything that could be implied or inferred from it. At least one of them should in this relationship.

His body was as tight as a taut string. Then, just as she was sure he would flounce away in one of his huffs, he relaxed again. Then, urging her thighs apart so he could settle his hips against hers, he said, "No, Molly Hooper, you are decidedly _not_ John."

He didn't attempt to kiss or caress her further. Instead, he laid his head on her chest, resting on top of her with a somnolent sigh. He was heavy, but it was an oddly reassuring burden. She was unsure of what to do at first. After all, she'd never had Sherlock this close before without having sex with him. It felt luxurious, being able to hold and feel him thus. Molly used the tips of her fingers to lightly scratch his back through the thin shirt, tracing little patterns as she went. He shuddered gently, arching his back ever so slightly like a cat enjoying a good petting. He felt cool to her, so she wrapped her legs around his hips and pulled him in closer so they could share body heat and kept on tracing his back. He said nothing, just lay there as a willing recipient of her ministrations.

They stayed like that for the longest time, until the light from the windows came from a more natural source. Still, she didn't want to leave. Being like this with him made her feel comforted, even with all that was weighing heavily on her mind. She could fall asleep just like this, slumber peacefully for hours and hours in the warmth and comfort of his embrace.

Finally, when warnings in the back of her mind were reminding her that she had work soon as well as all the new rules now in existence, she removed her legs from his hips and squirmed to be let up. He snuggled closer in protest and grumbled, "No."

"I need to get ready for work."

"It's barely dawn. You don't go in for another two hours." He pulled himself up, balancing on one elbow to stare down at her. "Or better yet, ring Mike Stamford to tell him you're not coming at all."

Molly shook her head. As she was about to argue, her attention caught on the wall behind the sofa. From her position, it looked to be covered in an array of papers, a few of which fluttered in the wake of Sherlock's movement. "What’s that?"

"The case," he muttered, burrowing into her neck. He kissed her softly there a few times, reaching up to cup her breast. "Now, I believe we were just about here—"

She struggled, shoving his hand away. "Let me up," she said.

"No. You'll only worry some more, which will affect your concentration at work. Allow me help you with that," he replied, continuing with his plan of seduction as he yanked up her shirt and began to kiss the tops of her breasts. He thrust his pelvis against her a few times, letting her know his attentions were not just for her benefit. He wanted her as well. She opened her mouth to protest, but he swooped up and captured her lips in a passionate kiss.

Part of her wanted to yield. No, truth be told, more than two-thirds of her wanted to yield, to give herself over to this mindless joining, to the emotional, physical, and mental release which came with the pleasure sex with Sherlock always brought. But she couldn't. He needed to focus, and this—she—was getting in the way.

"No," she said, breaking away from him. Her arms were bracketed against his chest, forcing him to look at her. "Let me up. Now."

Sherlock squinted at her, confused. "What?"

"I’m declining your kind offer. Remove yourself from my person so I can get to my feet."

He blinked and stared at her, once more reminding her of Mycroft. "You're denying me?" He frowned. "You're denying me? You _want_ me. I know you want me. I can tell. You always want me. _You always want me_." It was like he felt if he repeated it, it would make sense.

"Consider it a postponement then. Just let me up."

He gracefully rose up and away, resting on his haunches as she scrambled awkwardly to get to her feet. Once she managed that, she smoothed her hair down and gazed up at the papers lining the wall. They were a mix of maps, photos, hastily scribbled notes, and what looked to be a schedule of some kind.

"What is all this?"

"Work, _obviously_ ," Sherlock growled, plopping back down on the sofa in a sulk. He straightened until he had once more commandeered the entire sofa, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked adorable, but Molly wisely kept this opinion to herself.

"Can you catch me up? Start at the beginning with this Professor Moriarty."

He glared petulantly at her. "Are you saying Mary didn't _catch you up_ during the discussion you two had when she came to retrieve Abby?"

"You know about that?"

"I know about everything," he announced matter-of-factly.

 _You don't know about Mycroft_ , she thought. _If you did, you'd be the one demanding answers. Then again, it’s probably better this way._ "How long have you known the professor existed? Since you went to dismantle Jim's network?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Before that. After he came to tea."

"Jim came to tea? Here? With you?" Molly couldn't even imagine that.

"Of course."

He spoke as if it were natural to have tea in his home with one of the most notorious criminals in British history. _Then again, for Sherlock it probably is._ "When?"

"After his trial but before my fall."

"Did he tell you about the professor then?"

"No," Sherlock replied. "He came to show off and to warn me of his plans through wordplay, but that's the problem with toying with your victims before you do them in. You run the risk of giving away more than you intended."

Fascinated, Molly asked, "And he gave away his brother?"

"No, he showed me who he was—a man seeking attention. Not just attention at large, but credit for his brilliance. He showed me his frustration, frustration that comes only from spending your life second best and the knowledge that, no matter what you do, you will never be quite good enough. He didn't want money or power. He wanted to be recognized as the best. He needed it like water, food, or air."

"But how does that translate into a brother?"

"As someone who has spent his life in the specter of a brilliant elder sibling, I know firsthand what that kind of frustration feels like. It's unique and easily recognizable if one knows what to look for. I suspected this meant an older brother. When I went to dismantle Jim's network, I heard whispers about the professor. That's when I knew I'd been right."  

"But why would Jim target you? Why wouldn't he go up against his brother if he wanted to show off? How does besting you prove anything?"

"I'm brilliant."

"Yes, I know that. So is Mycroft, so is this professor, and so is Earl Denton. Why go after you specifically? How would besting you prove anything to this brother of Jim’s?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, slowly shaking his head. "That is the one thing I still don't know. Perhaps it's as John said—my international reputation made me a target. Or maybe it was something else. Honestly, it doesn't matter now. Jim's dead."

"It _does_ matter," Molly insisted.

Sherlock opened one eye to look at her. "And why is that?"

"Because if you uncover the reason Jim targeted you then, you'll have a better understanding of why his older brother is targeting you now."


	37. The Shuffle

Sherlock rolled his eyes, exasperated at himself for believing Molly was on to something. His phone buzzed with an incoming text. He picked it up, noted it was from Lestrade, and tossed it aside. “The reason I’m being targeted is obvious. In the professor’s mind, I’m responsible for his brother’s death. In retaliation, the professor wants to kill me. Must we go through this again?”

“But if that is so, why—”

“Don’t you have to get ready for work or something?” His patience spent at this dead-end conversation, he rolled to face the back of the sofa.

She didn’t respond to this blunt dismissal, but then again, he hadn’t expected her to. He simply needed her to go away for a bit. Having her around right now made him feel … Well, wasn’t it enough that she made him feel anything? Now was not the time for this—especially when Molly smelled of lavender and the memory of the taste of her skin was like sugar on his tongue. The knowledge that holding her in his arms moments before had been more of a homecoming than usual euphoria he experienced upon entering his flat after a prolonged absence sent warning bells sounding in his mind. The temptation to lose himself in her was so overwhelming that he didn’t trust himself to keep his distance.

But he must keep his distance. After all, Molly said no, hadn’t she? She didn’t want him. Why? What did it mean? Had he done something wrong? Of course he hadn’t! It didn’t matter. There were more important things to ponder. _Damn._ It _did_ matter. Why did it matter? And why did her rejection leave Sherlock suffering from a supreme level of frustration he was sure all the heroin in London wouldn’t dull? He’d gone years without the touch of a woman. He’d survived, hadn’t he? And whatever else Molly Hooper might be, she was nothing more than a woman. _Just a woman._

The blessed and repeated creak of the stairs told him Molly had fled to her room. _Thank God._ Most likely he’d hurt feelings and would have to come up with some sort of apology later. Right now, he couldn’t even fathom it. He wanted to yell or heft the contrary pathologist over his shoulder and carry her off to his bedroom. What would she say then? Would the answer still be no? What would he do if it was? Why did he care so blasted much? He had a case, didn’t he? A definite 10. Quite possibly the most intriguing case that would ever come his way. He should be happy—or at the very least, excited as usual. Instead, he was much the opposite.

With a deep groan, Sherlock flopped onto his back. Two seconds after that, he was on his feet, intent on ridding himself of this nervous energy. _Cigarettes. Cigarettes. Where are they?_ This was certainly a two-pack case. Perhaps three or five. It depended on how many he had left. In his current mood, he was liable to smoke through an entire carton.

 _Where are the blasted things?_ Ever since the last time he’d quit cold turkey, Mrs. Hudson had taken to throwing them out whenever she should happened to find them. She even binned a pack of nicotine patches she’d found in the skull on the mantle. If those weren’t sacred, what sort of world did he live in?

“Why can’t they leave things the way I put them? It’s my flat, isn’t it?”

He heard his phone go off once more. _Lestrade again._ He checked to be sure, ignored the message, and sent a quick text of his own.

_You’re late._

The reply came a moment later.

_Ten minutes._

With a grunt of frustration, he continued on his mission. A thorough scouring of his customary hiding spots, which included a pair of brocade Persian slippers (or at least, the one he managed to locate), inside the bejeweled watch box he’d received from a client, and the hideaway pockets lining the inside of his coat, yielded nothing more than a flat, beige box, which he sat on the table next to his chair where it was sure to be noticed. Next, he climbed his bookshelf to check the hollowed-out volume proclaiming itself to be a biography on Dr. Joseph Bell. _Nope. Damn!_ Tossing the empty tome across the room, he growled and jumped down.

“Mrs. Hudson binned them yesterday. It might behoove you to find new hiding places for your vices.”

 _She’s back. About time._ With a scowl, Sherlock replied, “If I put them in different places, Molly, I can’t find them.”

“You’re a consulting detective—the world’s only—and you can’t find your cigarettes if you don’t put them in your predictable hiding spots?” Molly asked, gaping at him as though he’d lost his mind.

He ignored her immensely practical question. “You changed clothes.”

Her expression tightened defensively. “I wanted to.”

Molly had covered herself in that ugly jumper with the cherries crocheted on it. Sherlock despised the garment and often fantasized burning it in a large bonfire. The only thing that kept him from it was the knowledge that jumper was the last gift her father had given Molly before he died. He gritted his teeth, knowing her purpose for wearing it. She only put it on when she felt the need to cheer herself up. _If she starts weeping, I’ll never get through this. I’m on a razor-thin edge as it is. Can’t she tell that?_

The spasm of guilt mixed with fear hit him by surprise. The initial instinct he’d had upon his quick deduction of her clothing, however, would have felled him completely had he not had the forethought to brace himself against the bookshelf. Sherlock Holmes had wanted to take Molly into his arms. Not to have sex or to get access to the lab or body parts, but simply because she clearly needed comfort and he’d already been such a dunderhead to her.

He shook his head at himself. _Good Lord! What’s next? We’ll hold hands, spout poetry to each other, and pledge to remain together forever?_

As a rule, Sherlock Holmes always attempted to be a gentleman when it came to his treatment of women—Mummy demanded no less from all her sons. A weeping female was never censured. Avoided, if at all possible, and assisted when not. One never EVER ran blindly towards an overemotional woman. After all, one was not an idiot.

Experience had taught him that attempting gentlemanly behavior did not mean it always came across as such. It was one of the many reasons he shied away from relationships in general and women in particular. Women were an emotional minefield. One tiny misstep and BOOM.

He stumbled over to his chair, collapsing in defeat. _What is happening to me? Is this what insanity is? Have I finally lost my senses as Mycroft has often worried I would?_ But what other explanation could there be? Here he was, the perfect reasoning and observing machine the world had ever seen and he was overcome with softer passions like some kind of lovesick dandy. _No. Not me. Not my area._

Sherlock closed his eyes, concentrating on regulating his breathing. _The case. That’s all that matters. The case and nothing else._

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he bit out.

“Not too fine if you’re manically hunting for cigarettes.”

His eyes snapped open at that. “Maniacally?” His eyebrow arched at her. “Really?”

Molly crossed her arms over her chest. “If the adjective fits ...”

“Adverb.”

“Whatever. It still fits.”

Sherlock fell back in the chair, grousing to himself. Nothing made sense right now. Not the way he felt or his instincts at present or Molly’s sarcasm in the face of his own boorish manners. Shouldn’t she have run off to work to lick her wounds? How many times had a curt word from him sent her running to sob her eyes out in the lavatory? Where was the old Molly Hooper when his sanity desperately needed her?

“Here.”

A small, cellophane-wrapped packet fell into his lap. He looked down. It took a moment to register what he was seeing. He glanced back up at her. “Where did you get these?”

“The shops. Picked them up while you were gone. I figured, sooner or later, you’d be desperate.”

Before he could respond, a shuffling noise came up the stairs. Wiggins appeared, carrying a large, white garment bag. “Just hang it in my bedroom,” Sherlock ordered, not bothering to rise.

“All right,” the younger man said. Once his chore was complete, he returned to the lounge.

“Well?” Sherlock asked.

“The alarm was raised this morning.”

“Good. You can go. Keep me alerted if anything new pops up.”

“All right. Do I actually get to go inside with you this time?”

“You wouldn’t exactly fit in, would you?”

Wiggins colored in chagrin. “Guess not.” He tipped his tattered cap at Molly. “Good to see you, Miss.”

“It’s Molly, remember, William?” she said.

 The youth colored again—this time for an entirely different reason. “Molly,” he murmured.

Sherlock sighed hard, hating the fact that the mere sight of Wiggins grinning at Molly like a buffoon made him want to toss the boy out the nearest window. “You can go now, _Billy_.”

Wiggins quickly shuffled out.

Once they were alone, she said, “There was no need to be rude to him.”

“If you knew how infatuated he is with you, you wouldn’t think so.”

“Infatuated?” Molly scoffed. “Please. He’s just a troubled young man in need of a friend.”

“And you are just a woman intent on saving every stray who comes your way.”

“Which would explain why I’m here now with you.”

Not willing to acknowledge exactly how fine a point she’d just had made, Sherlock growled and turned his attention to the nicotine patches in his lap.

“Do I get to know what that was all about?”

“Where’s the fun then?” he replied. She eased closer to him, her ever-present scent of lavender and formaldehyde once again making him aware of his desire for her. He fumbled with the wrapper. Taking pity on his clumsiness, she snatched the packet from him, ripped off the cellophane, and handed it back.

“Just promise me you won’t use more than two at once. Now is not the time for you to develop nicotine poisoning.”

“Done.” With a great sigh of relief, he slapped two patches in a row across his arm. Reclining against the back of his chair and closing his eyes, his body relaxed as he felt the nicotine hit his bloodstream. He inhaled fully, then exhaled, long and loud. _Yes. That’s it._ His heartrate increased, but as that was to be expected, he paid it little mind. Calmer now, he was able to turn his attention from Molly. His mind ruminated over what he’d learned the past few days. Taking each detail up in his mind, he reviewed and categorized it carefully before filing it away and moving to the next. When he opened his eyes, he was amazed to discover the light brighter in the lounge, which indicated that it was near on midday.

He was more than amazed to see Molly sitting on the sofa across from him, reading. _Perfect. Saves me the trouble of hunting her down in the lab later._

“Why aren’t you at work?”

“You needed me,” she said, putting the book aside. “I stayed. Told them I was sick.”

“But ... before ...”

“Before?” she repeated.

“I asked you to do that before ... when I ... when you ...”

Molly said nothing, simply waited for him to finish. As Sherlock realized finishing would only lead to mortification, he changed direction. “How did you deduce that your presence was required?” His gaze fell on the book in her lap. The one of dragons, unexpected deaths, bastards, ice zombies, and an iron throne. “How does reading that poor excuse for a novel help me?”

“Been reading it, too, have you?”

“Of course not!”

She grinned, an indication that she didn’t believe him. “You were clearly stuck in the case and frustrated. I assumed once you’d had time to think things through—if you were still stuck—you might find it helpful to have someone to bounce ideas off of. I also assumed you might be hungry or thirsty at some point.” She nodded to the table beside his chair, which he noted contained a cup of tea and a bowl of soup, both with steam still rising off of them in know-it-all, little plumes.

Trying to ignore how much the soup’s delectable smell was turning him into one of Pavlov’s dogs, he huffed, “I’m not stuck.”

“Uh-huh,” she murmured, her nose once more returned to her novel.

Since she wasn’t watching, he dove into the soup. After all, it would be a shame to waste it since she went to all the trouble. _And I am a gentleman._ The first spoonful was heaven. _Potato with bacon._ Before he knew it, the bowl was bare. He barely looked up as she reclaimed the now-empty dish and provided a new, heaping one. This new bowl, as well, was soon exhausted. At length, with a gluttonous sigh worthy of Mycroft goggling dessert, Sherlock shoved it away.

Molly, like before, collected the bowl. “You were starving.”

“Yes.” He nursed his tea.

“You sound surprised by that admission.”

He considered it briefly before he said, “I am.”

She returned the bowl to the kitchen and came back to regain her place on the sofa.

Sherlock watched her, finishing his tea and setting the cup back on the table. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Did you make the soup by hand?”

“Yes,” she answered, almost shyly.

“I wasn’t aware you could cook like that.”

She ducked her head. “I’m hardly Delia Smith. I can do eggs, a simple bolognese, a few soups, sandwiches, and an occasional fry up if need be. Anything more complicated than that and I’m all thumbs.” Pulling her knees up against her chest, she added, “I made lots. We can eat on it for days. It’s easy to reheat in the microwave.”

Sherlock nodded, wondering when such mundane conversation had become his existence. Moreover, he wondered when such conversation had become anything but mundane. He was enchanted to know this side of Molly. Having stayed at her flat a few times and in having her here all these months, he hadn’t bothered to pay attention to her culinary skills—After all, food was just food. Now, he wondered what other skills she might have that he was unaware of.

Checking his watch, he noted the time at a little after noon. Sherlock got to his feet, stretching the kinks from his body. He grabbed his phone, noticed he’d missed a few calls from Lestrade, and put it in his pocket.

“How do you do that?”

He looked around. “Do what?”

“Go without food so long you don’t even recognize when you’re starving.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t think about it. I’m typically focused on the case.”

“Doesn’t a growling stomach interrupt your focus?” She leaned forward on the sofa, her curiosity seeming to get the better of her.

“The weaker aspects of being human—hunger, thirst, and the like—can be put aside for a time if one has been trained appropriately.” He tapped his temple. “Mind over matter. The game always comes first.”

“Yes, the case _must_ come first.” Molly nodded, seeming to ponder the wonder of it all. “But surely you can’t put the weaker aspects aside forever?”

“No. Eventually, my humanity rears itself and I must indulge in whatever way my body demands. But only in small doses until the case is solved. Then, I resume life as I was until the next case comes along and the cycle begins again.”

“That can’t be healthy.”

He frowned at her. “Do I appear ill to you?”

“You’re too thin, and you don’t get enough sleep. It’s a wonder you don’t have dark circles under your eyes. You won’t reach forty the way you’re going.”

He waved her concerns off and claimed a seat beside her on the sofa. “I’ll live to a ripe, old age.”

Molly looked up with a smile. “And what will you be doing then? Still solving cases?”

It was his turn to ponder. “Possibly, if my mind is still sharp and I’m interested enough to care. I could also see myself retired. I’ll buy a cottage in the countryside somewhere.”

A shadow fell over her face for the barest of moments. But she quickly recovered with a smile to cover it. “And what will you do at this countryside cottage?”

“Apiculture.”

“Beekeeping?”

Sherlock stared at her in wonder. “You know what apiculture is?”

“Of course. I studied medicine, which includes a lot of Latin. Apiculture is from the Latin word _apis_ , which means ‘bee.’ Plus, bees are kept in an apiary.”

A large shot of unbridled lust hit him from nowhere. _Brainy is the new sexy, indeed_ , he thought. This made him think of The Woman, which was startling when he realized he hadn’t thought of her in a long, long time. _Odd._

“Why beekeeping?”

That turned his attention. “Bees are fascinating. Solitary creatures with a complex culture. There are over 20,000 species of wild bees. Did you know that?” He didn’t wait for her reply. “So much to learn. I’ve written a few blogs on their nesting habits, but I’ve never truly had the time to delve deeper in my understanding of them. I’m most interested in inter-breeding and hybridizing.” He nodded to himself. “Yes, I believe I could be quite content as a beekeeper.”

Molly gave a merry little laugh, rocking backwards a bit before coming forward.

“That is amusing to you?” he asked, half insulted and half intrigued as to her reply.

Her eyes got a faraway, bemused look about them. “Not amusing _per se_. I more enjoy your passion on the subject. I didn’t think I’d ever see you proclaim that level of interest in something which doesn’t involve a crime scene. And I love the idea of you as a gray-haired, old man puttering around your hives for hours in one of those large hats with all the netting. Somehow, I imagine you’ll still manage to be handsome.” Glancing down at her drawn-up knees, her voice turned husky as she murmured, “You’ll always be handsome.” She shrugged. “To me, anyway.”

Her words sent a warm, unfamiliar feeling in the general vicinity of his heart. Moreover, the persistent lust returned, overcoming a body part situated much lower. How much more of this could he take? _What would happen if I just leaned over and kissed her? Would she reject me then?_

He exhaled, trying to push the temptation away by changing the subject. “And what will you be doing while I’m out back tending the bees? Will you be inside the cottage reading one of your ridiculous novels?”

With a gasp, her eyes darted upward to him. Their gazes held. Unadulterated bliss flooded her expression. The source of this newfound happiness he didn’t know. Sherlock only knew something he had done had put it there and he never wanted it to go away.

No words were exchanged. Barely a breath was exhaled. Looking away from Molly now was something Sherlock could not do. He was captivated by her mere presence, ensnared by the way her eyes sparkled as if barely able to contain her elation, enthralled by the unique scent that followed in her wake like a cape, and beguiled by her ... _Wait. Beguiled?_ His rational mind could barely fathom the word or the ramifications of it. Alarm bells sounded in his head. Cold fear raced through his veins like cocaine. _Pull back. Now._ Cynicism reared its ugly head, giving him a solid list of reasons why he should look away right now. _Run. This path will lead to your ruin._ He’d heard this warning before. He’d heeded this warning before with The Woman. But something else—something intense, heavy, and loud—overruled all of it this time. _She’s not The Woman. She’s Molly. Your Molly._ And as simple as that, his mind quieted until he saw nothing but her, felt nothing but her, thought of nothing but her.

Molly smiled, so sweet and soft and winsome. He smiled back. He couldn’t help it. _Beguiled. Yes. Unrepentantly. That’s what I am._ He leaned forward, intent on kissing her. She leaned forward as well, but just seconds before their lips were to meet, she pulled back. “I should go clean the kitchen.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s dirty.” She liberated her knees and prepared to rise.

“Do it later.” Sherlock captured her wrist before she could get away. “Or better still,” he said as he gave her wrist a swift pull, which catapulted her into his lap. “Don’t do it at all. I have something far more interesting to occupy you.” Her supple body in his arms was everything he remembered and so much more. He reached up to kiss her, but again, she jerked away.

“Release me.”

He did so, more because of surprise than anything else. Molly stumbled a bit, but soon had her footing. Without another word, she marched to the kitchen. Sherlock followed.

“What is wrong?” he demanded once they’d rounded the corner.

Molly immediately went to the sink, filling it with soapy water and dirty dishes. She kept her back to him. “Nothing.”

“Have I done something to offend you?”

She turned off the tap. “No.”

“Do you wish to end our relationship?”

That made her turn to look at him. “No.”

The not understanding was driving him crazy. Sherlock crept closer, his eyes running over her. “Your breathing has increased, as has your heartbeat from the way the pulse point at the base of your neck is jumping at me.” He closed in on her until she was backed against the sink and his shirt was touching that God awful jumper. He reached up, running two fingers along the side of her neck. Her heart was hammering so violently that he was sure he could have heard it if he took the time to listen. Glancing down, he murmured, “Your eyes are dilated. Your skin is flushed. Do you know what deduction I must make based on all these facts, Molly?”

“Sherlock, we can’t do this now.”

“Can’t we?” He dropped the timber of his voice, knowing from past experience that women—Molly in particular—seemed to become flustered and off center whenever he did that.

“You need to focus. Nothing is more important than the game, remember?”

He cupped her chin, pulling her closer to him. “The game, indeed.” His lips ran delicately over her cheek, down her chin, and scored her neck before he placed a light kiss at the base. She shivered and he grinned to himself. _Got you._

“Th-th-the c-c-case.” She paused, swallowing hard before she continued. “I know you’re stuck.”

That gave him pause. He pulled back. “I’m not stuck.”

“You are. There’s no shame in admitting it.”

“There’s no shame because I’m not stuck.”

“But you were gone for almost a week. _Five days to be exact._ You didn’t ring or text me, which leads me to believe you were on to something.”

“I was. Is that a problem?” Sherlock’s mind raced. Had he done something wrong? Was he supposed to ring or text her? He hadn’t needed her. Why else would he contact her? Of course, now they were in a relationship. Did that change things? If so, how? He would have texted her to alert her of his return as he had done before, but as it was way past midnight, he had thought it better to not disturb her rest. Had he been wrong in that?

“Then,” Molly said, “out of the blue, you show up here, all anxious and moody and desperate for cigarettes. You only act like that when you’re stuck.”

“That wasn’t about being stuck. It was …” He broke off when he realized what he was about to admit.

When he didn’t finish, she looked down in defeat. “Don’t lie to me.”

Now he was livid. “I’m not lying to you, Molly. I promised not to, and I’ve kept that promise. Just as I have vowed to solve this case and deal with Moriarty, and I will.” He closed in, capturing her jaw so he could make her look at him. He was astonished to find tears in her eyes, more astonished to realize those tears felt like a punch to the gut. “Do you doubt me?”

Her expression softened as she stared back at him. “No. Never. You and only you are the one who can solve this case. I know that, and I trust you.” She bit her lip. “I love you. I know that’s a weakness in your eyes, but I do.”

It was a weakness—not to mention foolhardy by half—but not enough that he wanted her to stop. In fact, he rather liked how much she loved him. His mind buzzed with this realization, he didn’t have time to concentrate on that because she was still talking.

“—and I’m trying my best to follow those rules. I truly am.”

_Rules? What rules?_

Molly’s lower lip wobbled. _Not a good sign._ “I will not let our relationship get in the way of your work. I won’t. Someone could die. That’s bad enough. But if it’s you, I …” She scrunched her eyes closed as if she couldn’t bear to finish, causing a tear to roll down her cheek. Then, as if she’d gotten better control of herself, she opened her eyes to look at him. “Don’t you understand? I want to _help_.”

Sherlock’s mind raced in confusion. There was more going on here than he could adequately understand. “You want to go with me on cases? Why didn’t you say so?”

“No, that’s not what I’m talking about!”

When she didn’t expound on what exactly she _was_ talking about, he said, “Molly, you have always helped me. I’ve always appreciated it.”

“In the lab, yes. But now that I’m living here and we are … in a relationship, I’m causing you to lose focus.”

He wanted to argue with her, but she wouldn’t let him get in a word edgewise.

“Right this second,” she continued, “I want nothing more than to drag you into the bedroom and have my wicked way with you. Even with all that’s on the line, I don’t care. I still want you. I could barely concentrate on my book while you were in your mind palace. All I could do was sit there staring at you and your beautiful neck and think about how much I love how your hair curls lightly around your ears when it’s in need of a cut and how much I’ve missed you. How selfish and stupid is that? Right now, when you should be focused on your work, I’m a distraction!” And with that, she fell against his chest, sobbing and muttering incoherent recriminations to herself.

Sherlock caught her crumpled form, held her against him, and clumsily patted her back. As his shirt was soaked with the tears of his weeping girlfriend, three things became quite clear.

One, from now on, he was evidently going to have to keep Molly more in the loop concerning his cases and activities. She worried too much otherwise.

Two, she desired him as much as he wanted her. _Thank God for that._

Three, he was going to have to kill Mycroft.


	38. The Deal

It took a few seconds for Molly to realize what she was doing and whom she was doing it on. She jerked away from Sherlock, horrified by her breakdown. “I-I-I’m so sorry.”

The victim of her emotional display frowned disapprovingly at her. Between the weeping and the large, wet swath now splashed across the front of his shirt, annoyance was to be expected. _Dear God!_ _Is that snot? Please tell me I did not smear him in mucus._ She cringed. Grabbing a nearby hand towel, she tried to dry him. Just as quickly, he snatched the towel away from her, tossed it back onto the counter, and pulled her back into his arms. Trapped, she could do nothing but stare up at him in confusion.

“Your constant concern for my safety is preposterous given all you know about the various skills I possess. I’m almost offended. You admit love and lust for me.” He nuzzled against her neck, dropping a series of short, strategic kisses. “Yet, the second I return home, you reject my advances, wasting valuable time we could have spent having copious amounts of sexual intercourse.” His breath was hot against her ear as he said, “What have you to say in your defense?”

She shivered involuntarily, very aware of what he was doing. _Why must everything be a game to him? Especially at a time so serious?_ “But, Sherlock, I—”

“You _are_ a distraction to me. This is true.” He pulled back slightly to look at her, keeping their faces level. “But have you ever considered that there are times when distractions can be welcome?” He moved to kiss her, but she turned her head away, leaving his lips nothing but her cheek as target.

She struggled against his hold, but his grip was too strong. The placid, seductive timbre in his voice vanished when he said, “If our relationship is to be successful, Molly, you must learn to trust me.”

Her head whipped around at that, her forehead almost colliding with his chin. She was appalled. _Is that what he thinks?_ “I _do_ trust you.”

His gaze pierced her. “More than Mycroft?”

 _What? How?_ Suddenly, everything snapped into place. _He knows Mycroft talked to me. Of course, he knows. He_ always _knows. Well,_ she mentally amended, _he can’t know_ everything _._ “Yes.”

“Then stop allowing him to wedge himself between us. That’s his aim. Divide and conquer, a tactic as old as time. Don’t fall for it.”

“But he … he said … He’s right that—”

“When it comes to political intrigue, global power plots, and war maneuvers, Mycroft is always right. But when it comes to you and me, he isn’t. How could he be? He’s never had a live-in girlfriend.”

“Of course not. He’s gay.”

Sherlock blinked, then grinned. “And you’ve discerned this how?”

“It’s obvious. He tries to act all aloof and asexual, but I know a homosexual male when I meet him.”

“As I recall, you missed the fact that Jim was gay.”

“He wasn’t gay. He was a pansexual psychopath.”

“A what?”

“He would have sex with anyone anytime if it meant he could get what he wanted. He acted heterosexual to be with me and then gay that one time to get your attention.”

 “ _Pansexual_. This is a new word for me, but a good one to know. You are correct, of course.” Sherlock’s hold on her tightened briefly. “In any case, my point is that Mycroft doesn’t understand our relationship.”

“Neither do I.” She shook her head. “Neither do _you_.”

He hesitated before giving her a rapid nod. “Be that as it may, whatever happens between us should be just that— _between us_. Do you agree?”

Sherlock sounded so composed and reasonable. Molly wanted to fight against the strange aura of calm settling over her, but it was such a welcome relief after the hellish week that she couldn’t.

“There,” Sherlock said, as she relaxed in his arms. “That’s better.” He released her and took one of her hands in his. “Now, if you’ll follow me to the bedroom, I think we’ve denied ourselves long enough, don’t you?” He dipped down to kiss her.

She almost let him but jerked back again at the last second when common sense returned.

He sighed, the very epitome of exasperation. “Are you conducting some kind of experiment on me?”

“What? No!”

“Are you sure? Because it seems as if you’re deliberately rejecting me in order to determine the exact point which marks the end of my endurance. Allow me to assist you in your endeavor. We have reached it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re forgiven. I’m going to kiss you now, Molly. And I warn you, if you pull away again, I vow that I will not stop until I’ve taken you against this very counter top.”

A hot flash of lust ran through her at the sheer thought of that. “Umm … No.”

“Why?” He sounded angry. She didn’t blame him.

Molly was almost afraid to admit it but knew there was no other way. “I need a wash.” She waved at her swollen eyes and overheated face. “You can’t kiss me like this. I must look a fright.”

His free hand cradled her jaw. One thumb brushed over her wet cheek. His mouth was so wonderfully close. “I don’t care,” he declared before seizing her lips.

Molly fell into the kiss, too tired to fight him anymore, too overcome by the passion his mere presence always brought about in her, too deprived of him— _of this_ —for too long. Sherlock kissed her intensely, yanking her to him as his mouth claimed her over and over again. This wasn’t about finesse or sport or even lust. No, his kiss was a brand. He was marking her as his—even though there was no one here to witness it, no visible indication which would be leftover in a few hours which would demonstrate his ownership.

 _It’s for me_ , she realized. _He’s doing this for me._ She kissed him back just as keenly. He groaned and broke away. Before she could get her wits about her, he’d reclaimed her hand and towed her along to his bedroom. She hurried after him.

Once inside, they exchanged swift, sloppy kisses, pausing only to pull a jumper and undershirt over the head (Molly), rip open Sherlock’s shirt (Molly again), or shuck trousers (Sherlock with a lot of help from Molly). Shoes, socks, and a sensible bra went flying as they stumbled back to the bed. It was only then that Molly realized Sherlock was completely naked while she was still clad in trousers.

Molly unfastened the waistband, and Sherlock reached to wrench them down. When he stopped abruptly, so did she. She was about to ask him what the issue was when he straightened, holding up the beige parcel she’d had in her pocket.

“Oh! I was going to ask you about that. It was on the table when I put down your lunch. I’d forgotten I put it in my pocket to get it out of the way.”

Sherlock smirked. Molly wasn’t sure how to take that.

“I didn’t mean to keep it,” she assured, lest he think she had.

“I meant you to find it.” He handed her the box. “Open it.”

Molly stared at the small, flat rectangle in her hands. Sherlock had bought her a present? She didn’t know how to think about that. Part of her wanted to flood him with kisses. The other couldn’t stop remembering all the dire warnings and plans from Mycroft. _Is this a sign that he’s losing it? Am I contributing to him losing it? What will that mean for … everything if he does?_

“Go on. It won’t bite you.” Sherlock winked before he added, “That’s _my_ job.”

Molly looked up, head tilted in bewilderment. “Was that a sexual innuendo?”

“Possibly.” His cocky expression wilted. “Did I do it wrong?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“It’s not something you typically do.”

“I used to flirt with you all the time.”

“To get body parts, you mean?”

He wavered, seeming to reconsider the wisdom of bringing that unwelcome fact up minutes before he was about to get lucky. “Among … other reasons.”

“That wasn’t flirting, Sherlock. That was giving me puppy dog eyes until I went along with what you wanted.”

“It’s a _type_ of flirting,” he muttered to himself.

Molly bit back a grin, glaring just to watch him squirm. “What was that?”

“Just open the box, woman,” he ordered.

Molly’s eyes darted briefly to the parcel in her hand and back up to him. “What is it, though?”

He crossed his arms over his chest, not the least bit discomfited to be standing there completely nude. “Open it and see. But a word of caution: Don’t get overly attached. You can’t keep it.”

“Why?”

“Because it isn’t mine to give you.”

“Then why am I opening it?”

“Because I asked you to.”

He had her there. The box was old and unlike anything she had ever seen before. With the way it was shaped and the shallowness of the container, she would have assumed it was some kind of fancy pen or a brooch. Instead, it held a narrow, velvet drawstring bag. Setting the box aside on Sherlock’s dresser, she opened the drawstring top of the black bag and tipped the contents into her palm.

 _Huh?_ _I don’t understand._ On a delicately-woven gold chain hung the largest, three-stone pendant she had ever seen. The uppermost crimson gem was heart-shaped, secured with a golden mount connected to a brilliantly clear, circular stone. Both of these were balanced on top of a matching crimson, pear-shaped stone.

“Put it on.”

She kept still, unable to do anything but stare at the necklace and repeat herself. “What is this?”

Losing patience, Sherlock took it from her and looped it over her head. The chain felt cold against her skin. The pendant was too as it landed between her bare breasts. Sherlock stepped back, seeming pleased. “There. Yes,” he said. “That’s nice. As I imagined it would be.”

“Where did you get this? It isn’t real, is it?”

“Could any pendant that large be real, Molly? Its size is almost obnoxious—or it would be if it didn’t go perfectly with your breasts,” he asked, pulling her close. “Now, where were we? Oh yes. Here, I think.” He kissed her.

There were two choices at hand. She could either discuss this mysterious necklace which would no doubt turn into a lengthy conversation about the case—since she knew it had to have something to do with that—or she could postpone everything and make love with the boyfriend she’d missed desperately all week. Molly had often prided herself on not being a procrastinator. She had always been the kind of person who just plowed on through the hard stuff to get the job done. No excuses. No justifications. No rash promises to do it all later.

Until today, that is. Today, she didn’t give a jot about anything but kissing Sherlock.

There were no more thoughts after that, only feelings. As Sherlock’s body settled over hers, she relished the contact of warm skin on skin. As she feverishly kissed and caressed him, she felt a rising hunger for him she feared would never be satisfied. As his clever mouth and fingers stroked over and under and around her naked form, she burned hotter than the sun. As they finally joined, she looked up at him looking down at her, savoring the unexpected tenderness in his expression. And from that instant until the last peak of sublime pleasure crested, Molly felt her abiding love for this man overwhelm her until there was no room for worry, dire warnings, curiosity, or anything else.

They parted briefly, each struggling to catch their respective breaths from opposite sides of the mussed bed. Yet, all it took was one questioning glance, one answering smile and they reached for each other again. This second coupling was less zealous. Molly rode him leisurely. Sherlock seemed to prefer this position as it gave him an unobstructed view of the necklace bouncing evenly with her breasts. After he had looked his fill, he fondled the pert mounds for a while before extending himself upward so he could take the nipples into his mouth. Moaning, she gripped his shoulders and tossed her head back to give him better access. He held her tightly to him, thrusting into her over and over.

“Yes, yes, yes,” she chanted as her orgasm built.

“Molly—Oh, Molly!” He started to shake.

The beginning might have started slow, but the ending surrender was swift, scorching, and so, so sweet. With a shout of utter completion, Sherlock collapsed back onto the bed. Molly went with him, unable to care that she was dead weight atop him. Her body was so relaxed and sated she couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to.

“You alive up there?” he asked.

She smiled to herself. “If I’m dead, it’s your fault.”

“You can thank me later.”

Molly laughed at his arrogance. When a semblance of her strength returned, she rolled off him. Usually, she moved away the second their passion was spent. But this time, she lolled on her belly, leaning her head on his shoulder and leaving one arm stretched across his chest. Sherlock, for his part, didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he used her close proximity to run his fingers lightly up and down the vertebrae of her back. He paused every once and a while, as if he were counting to see how many she had or as if he were labeling each one in his head.

 _Probably the latter_.

At first, she enjoyed the intervening silence. It was nice. But all too soon, her worries resurfaced. “Are you going to tell me about the case, most especially what had you running out of here the other night?” she asked.

“As long as you understand that we’ll be reviewing your conversation with my meddlesome brother regarding the status of our relationship afterward, I’m fine with that.”

He gave a hearty yawn, exhaustion finally catching up with him. But Molly knew better than to say anything. So, she nodded instead of giving a verbal response.

Mycroft wouldn’t like her blabbing—in fact there were things she’d sworn never to tell Sherlock for fear of …. _No, it might not happen._ _He said he wasn’t sure. He only_ … Molly squelched those traitorous thoughts. It would only lead to more anxiety, and she already had more than she could handle right now. _No, I need to talk to Sherlock. He’s not going to let this go_. Besides, he was bound to have words with Mycroft eventually about cornering her in the first place. Plus, Sherlock wasn’t wrong in what he said. Some things in their relationship _should_ be just between them.

“Where would you like me to begin?” he asked.

She shivered as his caress started again at the base of her spine. “Well, I’m caught up with the professor, and I know who the earl is. Why not start with what I said that sent you off in the first place?”

“You don’t understand the lead you gave me?” Before she could answer, he said, “Of course you don’t. OK. You said Earl Denton’s game of choice was making predictions. You’re right. So that meant whatever Moriarty is planning, it’s so complex he needs Denton’s foresight to know whether or not it will prove successful.”

“But you and Mycroft were hinting at that already. How did I help you understand anything?”

“The earl often keeps to himself at his estate in Cornwall. According to rumor, even his family have to make appointments with him.”

“He’s married?”

“Yes, with two children. A daughter, around 17 or so and a son, aged 10.”

Molly was amazed. It seemed strange that a genius of such significance to the world would have something as commonplace as a family. It would be like Sherlock having a wife and children, and if that wasn’t a bizarre mental picture, she didn’t know what was. “So how did I help you?”

“The earl only gets involved when he wants to. It’s like me taking only the cases that spark my interest. The more complicated the question he must answer, the better. It didn’t occur to me—until you mentioned the bit about everyone having their game of choice—how someone like Moriarty would be able to get to Denton.”

“Through his family, you mean? I thought you figured that out. Something to do with using Magnussen’s information to blackmail him?”

“Yes, I supposed it to be through blackmail but no, I did not think he got the information from Magnussen. That was Mary.” Presumably bored with exploring and classifying Molly’s back, he claimed the hand she’d rested on his chest. He brought her wrist to his nose for a moment and gently inhaled before releasing a soft, gratified grunt. Molly was bewildered. _What in the world is that about?_

Then, as though it were the most normal thing in the world, Sherlock laced his fingers with hers and folded their joined hands neatly over his neck. Gently, he rubbed the side of her hand back and forth against the underside of his chin. A bit of stubble, which he’d failed to remove upon his return home, gently abraded her skin, but she didn’t mind. In fact, the simple act made her heart melt a bit. The whole scene reminded her of something a child would do with a well-loved blanket to comfort himself.

He continued speaking, seemingly unaware that her mind was focused on other things. “It would be too difficult for Moriarty to get the information _from_ Magnussen—who carried all files in his impeccable mind palace.”

Molly blinked, regaining her concentration. “But Moriarty could get to anyone, couldn’t he? If he wanted to?”

“It’s possible, of course. But Magnussen has been dead too long to be of any use to Moriarty, and I seriously doubt he left anything just lying around. He was too careful for that.”

“So how did Moriarty get the information to blackmail Denton?”

“That, my dear, is where _you_ come in.”

“Me?” Molly was now completely baffled.

“When you mentioned the game, it got me thinking about things differently. What if Moriarty didn’t need to use blackmail? After all, with Denton, simple blackmail won’t hold him for long. He’ll figure a way around it or he’ll get one of his powerful allies to handle the matter quietly and quickly. Moreover, if what Moriarty is planning is as complex as I assume it is, he would need to acquire quite a bit of time with the earl and cooperation. _Real_ cooperation.”

Molly pondered this for a few moments before she said, “He simply created the best, most complicated question ever and challenged the earl to answer.”

“Exactly!” Sherlock rewarded her response by pressing a swift kiss against her wrist.

“But how did all of that send you running out of the flat? And where did you go?”

“I knew I needed to get to the earl. Eventually, that meant going to Cornwall.”

“You went to Cornwall?”

“Not that first night, of course. I hoped he’d be in London.”

“He wasn’t?”

“No.”

“But wouldn’t Mycroft be able to tell you where the earl was? Wait—no, he was sacked, wasn’t he? But surely he knew someone who would know—”

Sherlock shook his head. “Even if he had retained his position, Mycroft wouldn’t necessarily know where Denton was at any given time. That information is only released at the highest levels and only on a need-to-know basis. Plus, I had to check out a few other items first. Mary was quite helpful in assisting me with that. But once we’d ascertained that we’d need to go to Cornwall, she returned to collect Abby and John and I left.”

“So you’ve been in Cornwall all this time?”

“Of course not.”

“Where else have you been?”

“Well, no matter who I talked to or what I did, there seemed to be no way I could get to the earl. John finally gave up and went home.” Sherlock smirked. “It took some time, but I eventually found a way around it.”

“So you talked to Denton? What did he say?”

Sherlock released her hand and reached out to finger the necklace she wore. “I haven’t spoken to him yet, but I will. Never fear.”

Molly nodded, trying to figure out how he planned to do that when he’d spent the better part of a week unable to do so. Sherlock was good, but if the great and powerfully-connected Mycroft couldn’t ascertain the earl’s whereabouts, what could his younger brother hope to do? And, when Sherlock did find the earl, what would he intend to do then? Did he now think Denton was in league with Moriarty? If so, how could he ever hope to outwit two such geniuses—especially with Mycroft now sacked and powerless? Molly opened her mouth to ask these questions, but Sherlock stopped her.

“I’ve been as patient as I’m going to be, Molly Hooper. I’ve kept my side of bargain by explaining what had me running out of here the other night and where I’ve been the last week. It’s now your turn to explain your _discussion_ with Mycroft.”

Molly wanted to argue—especially considering that they were hardly done talking about the case and he had yet to explain this mysterious necklace—but knew better. The grim determination in his eyes declared arguing would be fruitless. He wasn’t going to give in.

So, with a sigh, Molly pulled away from him, rolled onto her side of the bed, levered herself up against the pillows, pulled the blankets up around her, and stacked her hands across her chest. No, Sherlock certainly wasn’t going to like this. Hell, _she_ didn’t like it.

Finally, with an apprehensive sigh, she said, “Fine. Let’s talk about Mycroft.”


	39. The Flop

“He had the best of intentions. You must understand that,” Molly said.

Sherlock didn’t even blink. Just stared at her, waiting.

“Mycroft worries about you all the time,” she hurriedly continued. “It’s actually very sweet. You know, if you think about it. Having no living family of my own, I find—”

Molly broke off when he rose from the bed, stalked to where his trousers were puddled in the floor and put them on. He turned to face her, arms crossed over his chest with palpable impatience.

Sherlock could be intimidating. There had been plenty of times in Molly’s life she’d found herself daunted by his presence, unsure of herself and unable to adequately get her mouth, mind, or body to function properly. But those instances generally had to do with him demonstrating his supreme intelligence. After all, who wouldn’t be intimidated by acumen like that? But this was decidedly different. He stood across the room, an imposing figure with a pair of hastily-fastened trousers and a ferocious scowl. It made her feel cowed and panicky. No, this wasn’t about intelligence at all. It was heavier, more emotional and harder for her to fully understand, deflect, or ignore.

She began again, voice softer than before. “He isn’t wrong to worry. I _am_ a distraction for you. And no matter how much you might sometimes welcome distractions, it is possible that I could distract you at the wrong time, which could cost you or someone else their life. I know you think Mycroft is simply trying to get between us, but what if that wasn’t his motive in talking to me? What if he is just worried about you and wants to help?

“He never demanded I stop seeing you. He never said I wasn’t good enough or smart enough to be with you. If he were truly the Machiavellian fiend you think he is, wouldn’t he have started there? Everyone knows that’s my weakness where you’re concerned. I’m fairly sure it’s tattooed on my face. I—”

“Enough. Just tell me what he said.”

She lurched in the bed, her hands tightening on the sheet held against her chest. Sherlock’s tone was harsh and menacing. She’d never had that directed at her previously. Oh, he’d been irritated before, but never like this. It felt like fury or something much worse. Her head came down. Tucking the sheet securely under her arms, she rested her hands in her lap, clenching them together. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw him take a step toward her, one hand raised as if he meant to touch her. But just as quickly, he stopped himself, crossing his arms back over his chest.

“Well,” she said, licking suddenly-parched lips, “Mycroft pointed out you had not been up to your usual adeptness when it came to deductions. You miss things—”

“I always miss something,” he said, dismissively. “You know this.”

She started again. “You either miss things, make wrong assumptions, or you offer information you didn’t originally intend to provide.”

That shut him up. It had quieted her as well when Mycroft started pointing out specific examples. “Mycroft first noticed a difference when you initially returned to London from being … away. But the issues grew more noticeable after John announced his engagement and throughout the wedding plans and …”

“And?” he prodded.

She took a deep breath, still unable to meet his gaze. “With your drug use, it went from noticeable to dangerous levels. Then, you killed Magnussen, and you were completely out of control. He feels your brief incarceration before you were sent away only made things worse. He’d hoped working the case of Moriarty’s return would bring you back to your regular self, but then you’ve proven unable to locate Jim’s body, incapable of defining and diffusing Moriarty’s plan, and …” She swallowed, hard, “got yourself a live-in girlfriend.”

His lack of response was painful this time. She glanced up, trying to gauge his thoughts. But his face was closed, his eyes boring holes in the carpet. His arms had become uncrossed and were now thrust into the pockets of his trousers.

Finally, he seemed to come back to himself. With a quick breath, he shook his head and raised his gaze to meet hers. “What is your opinion?”

“I don’t think Mycroft meant any harm in—”

“No. Your opinion. Tell me. Am I missing things more than usual? Am I losing my skill?”

“I don’t know.”

He marched over to the wardrobe where his dressing gown hung. “An evasion,” he said, shrugging the garment on and tightening the sash with a sharp jerk. “Come now, Molly. Surely you can do better than that.”

“You are balancing precariously on a precipice between tragedy and normality. He thought I might be able to help with that before …”

“Before?”

“Drugs,” she finished meekly.

He inhaled a loud, heavy breath, held it a long moment, and then released it.

It was such a defeated sound. Her heart twisted. “I want to help you, Sherlock.”

“Help? How could _you_ ever help me?”

She winced even as anger flared inside of her. “You asked my opinion. Evidently, you’re not sure if there really is a problem. So, yes, I could help you.”

“You think I asked because I’m unsure of myself?”

She considered this. _Damn._ No, he most likely asked because he wanted to know if she agreed with Mycroft. She’d indicated that she did. No doubt, he viewed that as a betrayal. She wasn’t sure he was wrong on that. But it didn’t change anything. Helping him was paramount to everything else—whether he realized that or not.

Sherlock leaned casually against the wall, taking her in with an almost bored once-over. But she knew better. His fury was there, boiling just below the surface. Instead of taking the defensive, as he obviously wanted her to, she took to the offensive. _Just get it said. You can’t help him until it’s all out in the open._

“You don’t think there’s a problem?”

“Nope.” The word flew from his lips, almost taunting her in its rapidity.

“Mary’s pregnancy.”

That stopped him in his tracks for a moment. He scowled. “What about it?”

“You implied Mary was pregnant at the wedding. You clearly didn’t mean to tell everyone like that. You said—”

He shrugged noncommittally. “It was a celebration. I got carried away.”

Molly’s brow rose at this. “I saw your face, Sherlock. You were shocked at what you said. You are rarely shocked by the words coming out of your own mouth. Plus, there is the fact that you followed this up by babbling for a full minute straight afterward—yet another indication that you said something you didn’t mean to.”

“And, as I recall, you spent the evening snogging Meat Dagger every chance you had in that ridiculously bright yellow dress; so what do you know?”

His statement was meant to wound. Instead, it only demonstrated how much she was on the right track. “There have been other times. You know there have.”

He glowered. “Name one.”

“Magnussen.”

Shock and confusion battled for dominance in his expression. “What are you talking about?”

“You botched the case.”

“I _resolved_ it.”

“Yes, by killing someone.”

Sherlock sneered. “He needed to be killed. You said you understood that.”

“By the time the decision for killing him was at hand, you had no other choice. _That_ I understand. But were it not for the errors you made in getting to that point, you wouldn’t have had to shoot anyone. Thus, the case was botched.”

“ _Errors_?”

She was treading on dangerous ground, but acknowledging that fact did nothing to deter her. “You assumed Magnussen had the blackmail materials in physical form instead of in his mind palace. That assumption is what lead you to break into his office, go to his house, put yourself and John in danger, drug your family, and steal Mycroft’s government-issued laptop. You nearly died! You could have gone to jail for treason! You took heroin! And for what? For what, Sherlock?”

“You don’t understand—”

“For what, Sherlock?” she pressed.

“Mary—” His eyelid twitched as he stopped suddenly. Coughed. Started again. “John and Mary understand. Why can’t you? There were people to be protected!”  

Molly crossed her arms over her chest. “You did all of this to protect Lady Smallwood, a woman you barely know?”

“Lady Smallwood? You think I would do all of that just for a client?”

“I think you would do _anything_ for a case. It’s how you’re put together. Always chasing the thrill of the game, always testing yourself … Don’t you see … Don’t you understand? You can’t …” Molly broke off when she realized she was crying.

Sherlock straightened, his posture almost formal. “That’s who I am, Molly. If you cannot—”

“I know that’s who you are, you bloody idiot! It’s one of the many reasons I fell in love with you. But you can’t be who you are, can’t do what you do if you refuse to recognize when there is a problem and ask for help.”

“I know my limitations. I have always—”

There were arguing in circles. _Enough._ “Why did you take drugs for the Magnussen case?”

“Didn’t my dearest brother tell you that when he seemingly informed you of everything else?” he snapped.

Molly wiped her tears away, refusing to be put off. “Why did you take drugs for the Magnussen case?”

He hesitated before answering, eyes narrowing at her in suspicion. Molly allowed him to look his fill, her face kept deliberately blank and—hopefully—giving away nothing.

At long last, he answered, “Magnussen operated from a position of power. He never interacted with anyone until he defined their weaknesses—or pressure points as he called them. Then, he exerted that pressure until he neutralized them, owned them. I needed him to believe heroin was my weakness so he’d target me.”

“Heroin _is_ your weakness. You’ve done it before. A simple search into your background could have given him that information.”

“I’ve been clean for a while. Everyone knows that. Shooting up again would allow him to believe I had relapsed.”

“You _did_ relapse.”

“No,” he hissed, “I only did that for the case. As you said, I’ll do _anything_ for my cases.”

Molly stared at him, long and hard. He wasn’t lying this time. At least, not to her. “Why did you take drugs for the Magnussen case?”

Sherlock frowned. “I just told you.”

“You went into the drug den so that Magnussen would find out, so he would assume you were back on the sauce.”

“Yes.”

“But why did you actually _use_ heroin? If you assumed you were being watched by someone who reported back to Magnussen—”

“They were following me. I made sure of it.”

“But they didn’t follow you into the flophouse, did they? Why would they need to? They’d automatically make the right assumptions as to why you were there, correct? Why would you need to actually take the heroin? You could act as if you had and no one would be the wiser. You would have still received the same outcome, but without actually shooting heroin and putting your health and precious mind at risk. So, I ask you again … _Why_ did you take drugs for the Magnussen case?”

Gazes were locked. Nothing was said. Time seemed to stand still. Then, just as quickly, time started again.

Pivoting, Sherlock left the room with a fierceness that left her stunned. Indignantly rising from the bed and tugging the sheet around her body, Molly followed, intent on not letting him get away. Unfortunately, she tripped on the way, stumbling to the floor. By the time she made it to the lounge, it was uninhabited.

“Sherlock?” She peered into the kitchen.

_Empty._

The flat’s front door was open. She hurried into the hall. “Sherlock?”

_Empty._

Racing back into the flat, she looked out the window, peering down at the sidewalk below. _Nothing._ Like a wisp of smoke, he’d vanished. Of all the outcomes she’d considered, Sherlock taking off like this was not expected.

 _It should have been._ She shook her head at her own ignorance. _You’re the bloody idiot, Molly Hooper._

Watching out for Mrs. Hudson and very aware of her own state of undress, Molly hurried up to her bedroom, worry stabbing at her as she went. Opening the door, she was not surprised to find it Sherlock-less as well.

“Where could he have gone?” Molly muttered to herself before shrugging on her bathrobe. She hastened back downstairs, unsure what to do next. Had he went down to Mrs. Hudson or just left the house entirely? He was barefoot and shirtless, for goodness sake! Molly considered checking in with the landlady, but decided not to. Wherever Sherlock had taken himself, he clearly didn’t want her around.

 _Should I call Mycroft?_ She immediately dismissed that idea. That would only make this worse. Besides, if Sherlock didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be. _John?_

“And say what exactly?” She buried her face in her hands. “I couldn’t have mucked this up better if I’d tried.”

With a groan of morose frustration, she headed back into his bedroom. Full of nervous energy, she stripped the bed, changed the sheets, and cleaned up the scattered clothing from the floor. The energy seemed to have doubled by the time she was done so she resolved to take a quick shower. As she got out, she realized she was even more anxious than before. All the sorbet in the world couldn’t soothe her.

 _Did I do more damage in talking to Sherlock about all of this? But what should I have done instead?_ She wasn’t sure of anything anymore. Eyeing the tub, she decided a nice, hot soak was just the thing to calm her down. She needed to think this out. That was the ticket.

She filled the tub and added some of her favorite lavender-scented bubble bath. Once everything was to her liking, she walked over to the mirror and piled her wet hair atop her head in a clip. She noticed the necklace Sherlock had given her sitting on the edge of the sink where she’d placed it before her shower. She picked it up and held it high, letting it dangle from her fingertips and catch the light.

It was a monstrosity to be sure, but beautiful. She assumed it was some kind of costume jewelry. No doubt part of some elaborate scheme Sherlock was concocting, she mused. Feeling bereft that Sherlock had left because of what she’d said, she pulled the necklace back over her head and got into the bath. _I pushed him. What if it was too far this time?_

Settling into the hot water, she reclined against the back of the tub and stretched her short legs out, pressing the soles of her feet against the porcelain. Somehow, all the nervous energy and anger from before had melted away somewhere between her decision to run the bath and her actually getting into it. All that was left was worry for Sherlock. _He needs help. Why won’t he let me in?_

The pendant was still dry in its resting place on the bare bit of skin between her breasts. The water and soap tickled its edge. Rinsing her hand free of bubbles, she fingered the pendant. Something had just occurred to her when a voice startled her.

“I believe this was what you were getting to.”

 Molly gasped and instinctively tried to shield her nudity. Too late, recognition of who was speaking to her registered. Sherlock. She looked to the doorway where he leaned against the door jamb.

“I am well acquainted with your form, Molly Hooper. It’s burned into my mind palace.”

Again, she tried to gauge his feelings, but they were shrouded in mystery. She settled on looking at his hand, which held out a small, black pouch to her. “What is that?”

“Come now. You know what it is. It’s what you were not-so-subtly demanding.”

“I never demanded anything.”

He scoffed, walking forward. “You’ve been making demands on me from the first day of our acquaintance. And no matter what I submit to you, it’s never enough.”

She settled back into the tub, trying to radiate a calm confidence she didn’t feel. “You are a better man than you allow yourself to be, Sherlock Holmes. I see that. I have always been able to see that. I have faith in you. I see _you_.”

He sighed, handing her the pouch. “I know.”

She took it and set it on the petite shelf on the other side of the tub. “Is that all of it?”

“Yes. Well, all I kept here.”

“Where was it?”

“221C.”

She nodded. It made sense that he would keep his drug stash there. It was never let out and not somewhere Mycroft, Lestrade, or John would consider looking. _That, at least, explains where he’s been._

“You were gone a long time,” she said.

He ignored this and said, “I’m not an addict, Molly. I use drugs, yes. But only at certain times. I can stop whenever I like.”

“Spoken like a true addict.”

“I’m not lying to you.”

“Yes, you are. Worse, you’re lying to yourself.”

“I haven’t used since you told me you would leave me if I did.”

“But before …?”

He gave a quick nod.

It was her turn to sigh. She closed her eyes, leaning her head against the lip of the tub. She heard the door to the lavatory close, but knew he hadn’t left. There was a faint rustling of clothing and the feel of him moving closer.

She opened her eyes to find him naked and staring down at the water with interest. Molly didn’t move, just waited to see what he would do.

“I’ve been told sharing a bath with your lover is supposed to be a sensual experience. Janine was seemingly a large proponent of this—which would explain her inclination to disturb me while I bathed. I, of course, remained firmly against the practice. I fail to understand how putting two people into a device meant for one and having them muck about in each other’s filth can ever be deemed romantic.” Yet, even as he said all of this, he lifted his leg to get in.

She held up a hand. “I didn’t invite you.”

“Since when has that ever stopped me?” he said with a cocky grin.

He stepped into the tub as she scrambled to give him room. There was a lot of maneuvering and splashing of water and soap over the side before he was settled at the other end.

Sherlock in a bubble bath should have looked ridiculous. Instead, he seemed like a king holding court. The bubbly water ringed his waist, leaving wet streaks glistening on his chest. His collarbones were brought into sharp contrast as he leaned back, bracketing his arms on either side of the tub. She wanted to smile at him, to allow herself to sink into this probably once-in-a-lifetime experience. But she couldn’t. They were hardly finished with their discussion. Honestly, they’d barely scratched the surface.

He groaned and heaved a heavy sigh, jostling the bubbles about them. “You’re going to have to choose, Molly.”

“Choose?” she repeated dumbly.

“Mycroft or me.”

Molly could have argued with him, pretended to not understand what he was speaking of, or make some quipping comment about how she had no interest in dating Mycroft, but they were past all pretenses now.

“You.”

“Good. Then, you will have faith in me and cease worrying all the time.”

“Fine. As long as you tell me what’s going on and stop lying and/or hiding things from me. Let me help you.”

He gave no answer. Instead, he slipped down into the water with a speed of an otter, returning to the surface soaked. He resumed his position, slicking back his now-wet hair with one hand and uncaring the water his actions had added to the floor. Then, as if he hadn’t done any of that, he said, “I’ve never lied to you.”

Molly saw it again then. Mary, of course, had warned her what to look for, but seeing it in person was something else entirely. “You just did.”

He blinked, reminding her of Mycroft. “No, I didn’t.”

The little twitch of his eyelid, so automatic, over so quickly one would barely register it. “I see. So you’ll tell me the answer to any question I pose?”

With a frown, he said, “Yes.”

“What does Magnussen have to do with protecting Mary?”

“If I protect Mary, John will be protected.”

“But why would Mary need protection from Magnussen?”

“She’s John’s wife. John is my partner. Magnussen knew John was one of my pressure points. He’d already tested this by having John kidnapped and nearly burned alive on Bonfire Night.”

Molly nodded. She remembered hearing about that. Of course, she hadn’t known it was connected to Magnussen until just now, but that was beside the point. Everything Sherlock said made sense. Were it not for the twitch of his eyelid and the many, strange things she’d noted about Mary during their acquaintance which didn’t add up to an average nurse, wife, and new mother, Molly probably would have believed him. Now, however, she knew better. _There’s a reason she keeps reminding me of Sherlock._ There was obviously more to Mary than met the eye. Something dark, sinister, and in need of secrecy. More obviously, Mycroft, in issuing his warnings and articulating his deductions and plans, hadn’t told Molly everything.

_Must be a Holmes family trait._

“What does Magnussen have to do with protecting Mary?”

This time, Sherlock didn’t look shocked or confused by her repeating the question. Instead, he came up on his knees and closed in on her. Arms on either side of her, he tilted down and pressed a soft kiss against her lips. She turned away so he would know she wouldn’t be so easily swayed. Sherlock kissed his way down her neck instead. “You are almost as stubborn as I am.”

“Then you admit there are things you aren’t telling me?” she asked.

He stopped his kisses to look at her. “There will be times I cannot tell you things, Molly. You must accept that. They’re not my stories to tell. Mycroft may not have a problem relaying others’ secrets to you, but I won’t.” He leaned back from her, serious. “That is not negotiable.”

“Mycroft never said anything about Mary. I figured it out on my own. She—”

His eyes blazed with lust. His hands grabbed her hips. With a heaving jerk, he came to rest on his side of the tub, bringing her with him. With a splash, she landed on his lap, trying to hold her balance against the slippery nature of a wet tub and an even wetter boyfriend. Settling her hips over his, he groaned as the heated core of her femininity rubbed against his penis.

She grabbed onto his shoulders. “Are you going to let me help you?” she said.

“You can go on cases with me anytime you like. In fact, I insist. You making deductions has turned out to be a very gratifying experience for me. I look forward to more.” He kissed her neck as he massaged her bottom with his hands.

Molly slipped her hand up the nape of his neck. Taking a handful of hair, she jerked his head back. He stared her at her, his expression one of decadence and desire. “That’s not what I meant. You’re stuck on the Moriarty case, and you can’t even admit it.”

The lust cleared a bit. “I’m not stuck.” He fingered the pendant she wore before placing a kiss on her collarbone.

She frowned down at him, irritated at herself for not pressing Mary to give her more than one lying tell for Sherlock. They were exceedingly helpful at times like this. “It’s clear you are. You need a way to get in to see Earl Denton. Why don’t you—”

A banging came on the lavatory door. “Sherlock, get out here, you prat! I know you’re in there. Mrs. Hudson said she just saw you come upstairs. I’ve been calling and texting you all day. There’s a case. High level!”

“What time is it?” Sherlock said.

“How on earth would I know?” Molly said.

“Not you,” Sherlock chided, reaching over to nip at her breast.  “Lestrade! What time is it?”

“What the hell does it matter—” Lestrade broke off, seeming to think better of his tirade. “It’s half six. Are you coming out or not? Don’t you understand? I’ve got a case. It’s definitely a nine. Might be a ten. Someone stole the Countess of Denton’s diamond and ruby pendant.”

Molly gasped, staring down at the necklace she was wearing before turning to glare at Sherlock.

He grinned back at her. “Still think I’m stuck?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come as soon as I am able.


	40. The Turn

Sherlock had never purposefully delayed a case—especially one involving a Moriarty. Yet, as he sat in a lukewarm, lavender-scented bubble bath with a naked Molly Hooper draped over him, he felt surprisingly tempted to do so.

_Damn Lestrade ruining everything by showing up a full hour earlier than expected! Maybe I could persuade him to—_

“Are you insane?” Molly whispered, eyeing the locked lavatory door with apprehension. “Why am I asking myself that? I already know the answer. Only you would turn cat burglar just to get an audience with the country’s most powerful man.”

“The world’s most powerful man,” he corrected, thrilled she’d put it all together so fast. With John, he would’ve had to go through everything in the cab while simultaneously tolerating being told off and possibly dodging blows to the head. Honestly, he wasn’t sure why he was friends with the man sometimes. _Partners, yes. Friends? No idea._ Molly, of course, was apparently intent on telling him off as well, but Sherlock found himself inexplicably fine with that.

He caressed her supple bottom, grinding enjoyably against her. _OK. Not so inexplicable._

She smacked his shoulder. “Stop that. You stole a 10 million pound piece of jewelry, there’s a policeman standing right outside the door, and you think now is the time you’re going to get lucky?”

“I merely borrowed the _30 million_ pound pendant, the detective inspector is now in the lounge sitting in the chair …” He cocked his head, listening. “No, make that the sofa—and based upon the flush in your cheeks and the way your nipples have hardened,” he took a moment to admire them, “oh-so-wondrously, I’d say you’re just as interested in ‘getting lucky’ as I am.”

She glared. He winked. She yielded. He grinned. She leaned forward. He slid his hands to her waist and pulled her close. Their lips met as her breasts pressed against his chest and—

“Sherlock! Come out or I swear to God I’m coming in! I’m not John. I don’t care if I see you naked. We both know I’ve seen you much worse.”

Molly pulled back to eye him curiously. “‘Much worse’?”

He shrugged. “A long story you don’t wish to hear involving a case, drugs, Lestrade, and a bit of cross dressing.”

The resultant pounding on the door had Molly climbing off him and getting out of the tub.

Sherlock groaned before bellowing back, “Lestrade, remind me later how much I owe you for this one.”

“See? Absolute nine, right? Now hurry up and get out here,” Lestrade yelled through the door, clearly missing the subtle threat Sherlock had issued. He then started detailing the case. “Cameras, security, and an impenetrable safe. Someone disabled the feed, broke into the safe, and security was totally unawares until an assistant went to get the necklace to be cleaned for some event the countess is attending tonight. No fingerprints left at the scene. Get a move on! They called you in special. Boss’ll have my head if we’re not there within the hour.”

Molly slipped and slid her way across the room in search of her robe. “I don’t even want to know how you did all of that,” she hissed at him as she put it on.

“You’re right. Explaining now would be a complete waste of your arousal. We’ll save it for later tonight. Consider it foreplay,” Sherlock said, rising from the bath. His journey across the floor was considerably less comical than Molly’s seeing as he had longer legs and the foresight to throw down a towel first. He wrapped a second one around his waist.

He’d barely completed this before Molly grabbed the last remaining clean towel and his hand, dragging them both into his bedroom. “Sherlock, this is a foolish plan.”

“How so? I get in to see the earl. They get their necklace back once I ‘miraculously’ find it. Everyone wins.”

“He’s the busiest and wealthiest man in the world. Why would he care about meeting with a consulting detective regarding a necklace he could easily replace with the loose change found in his sofa? You might meet with the countess, but you’ll most likely be pawned off on some assistant or a bodyguard and treated like a trained monkey until you find the necklace.” She stalked over to his dresser, opened the first drawer, and tossed him a pair of clean pants.

Sherlock caught the silk boxers, dropping his towel to tug them on. “You know me better than that. Throw me an undershirt as well, will you?”

She did, which he quickly put on. He turned to search through his wardrobe until he found the black trousers he wanted.

“What I know,” she said, “is that you have a tendency to get caught up in the excitement of the game without thinking things through.” She slammed the drawer, highlighting her displeasure.

He paused in the act of fastening the trousers. _True?_ He searched his memory. _No._ “When have I ever done that?”

“How about the time you got shot?” She moved to sit on the end of the bed, let down her wet hair, and began toweling it dry.

He donned his camel dressing gown. “I assure you,” he said, joining her on the bed to slip on his shoes and socks, “no amount of thinking that night through would have prevented it from happening. I’m a consulting detective. Not a psychic. There are always unknown variables one cannot account for—which is why I usually have John bring his gun.”

“Well, John’s gun won’t do you much good tonight. Have you thought about the fact that the earl might have already worked out that you took the necklace? He’s smarter than you. You said so.”

“This is my area, Molly. No one is better than me at my area. Besides, balance of probability and the earl’s schedule say he hasn’t even been alerted of the break-in or the missing item. There is also the telling fact that Lestrade is here to get me for the case. He clearly isn’t arresting me.”

“So I assume you have some _other plan_ which will somehow force the earl to talk to you?”

He leaned over to peck her cheek. “Of course.” Jumping to his feet, he grabbed his watch off the dresser and put it on. A glance at the time told him it was a commodity they were swiftly running out of. “Get dressed. I’m going to stall Lestrade. It’s a pity he came when he did.”

“Why?” Molly said, wryly, still toweling her wet hair, “because he stopped us from having sex again?”

“That and we didn’t get to the dancing lesson yet.”

“Dancing lesson? What are you talking about?” Molly squawked.

Sherlock tapped his finger on his watch. “No time. Get dressed.” He turned to leave the bedroom, but her hand grabbing his stopped him.

“I’m not going out there in nothing but a bathrobe with Greg Lestrade here,” she said.

“Of course not.” He nodded to the large garment bag hanging on his wardrobe. “Your clothes are in there.”

“In the bag William brought in earlier? _My_ clothes?” she repeated dumbly, looking from him to the bag. “Which clothes? Why would William have my clothes? Please tell this has nothing to do with cross-dressing. If so, I don’t want the clothes back.”

Sherlock chuckled, finding her confusion strangely adorable. Molly might sometimes get jump on him on some things, but would never fully surpass him in the thinking-ahead department. “It’s what you’ll be wearing tonight. All new. I promise.”

“Tonight? You don’t mean—”

He shrugged again. “You said you wanted to go on cases with me.”

“What about John?”

“He’s busy with Mary and the baby. You don’t mind, do you?”

She eyed him warily. He could see her wavering, curiosity and excitement at war with worry and confusion. Sherlock observed her smugly while she fell into his trap.

Finally, she said, “I never said I wanted to go on cases with you.”

 _Got you._ “Actually, you told me earlier you wanted to help me. Practically begged to be of assistance. Consider this me taking you up on your kind offer.” He moved in for the kill, lifting her hand to his lips for a kiss. “Tonight, Molly Hooper, you’ll be my partner in more than just domestic matters.”

 Molly blinked, spellbound and looking all the more lovely for it.

He gave her another wink before he whispered. “There’s underwear and shoes in the bag as well. You’ve got fifteen minutes.” Then, he was out the door, pulling it closed behind him.

“You had your protégé buy me knickers?” came her muffled screech.

He smirked, not deigning to reply as he located Lestrade, sitting on the sofa talking on his mobile. _Appalling tie. Polished shoes. New suit. Cheap, but serviceable. Haircut today. Wedding ring back on. Giving it another go, Lestrade? Then again, I guess there is a strange irony to a man who is obsessed with a woman who is obsessed with sex with other people, a man who continuously goes against his better judgment and allows himself to be dominated by idiots._

“Yes, sir. I understand. Yes. I’m here to col—Yes, I’m well aware of the importance of—No, sir I—Yes. Yes, of course, I will.” Lestrade winced as he pulled the phone away from his ear. “Goodbye to you, too.” He looked up at Sherlock. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for hours. Why have you been avoiding me?”

“Better things to do.” Sherlock casually collected his mobile from his desk and took his usual chair, glancing through the flurry of texts and the sixteen missed calls he’d received from Lestrade.

“Why are you just sitting there? Get dressed. We have to go.”

Not bothering to look up from his phone, Sherlock said, “I would have you know I had plans this evening. _Very_ important plans.”

“Plans?”

“Yes. A date, if you will.”

Lestrade let out a snort. “I don’t know why you’re trying to have me on, but now is not the time. This case is a nine, I tell you.”

“Time will tell the truth of that. It could be a three. We agreed what would happen if you ever again brought me a three, didn’t we?” He paused in checking his email to shoot the man across from him a meaningful look.

Lestrade paled at the memory before anger returned the color to his face. He got to his feet, closing the distance between them so that he towered over Sherlock.

Sherlock noticed this peripherally. _Desperate to force me to move. They’re threatening his job, then. Expected. Next, he’ll issue a ridiculous threat to back up the nonverbal dominance tactic._

“Sherlock, we don’t have time for eccentric weirdness right now. Go back in there and get ready or I swear by all that’s holy that I’ll haul you out of here just as you are.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. _As expected._ “I once went to Buckingham Palace in a sheet. Showing up at Earl Denton’s Kensington home in my dressing gown would be far less mortifying, I assure you.” He stood, leveling the playing field. “Well, for me at least.”

“How did you know where—”

He waved off the question, already getting irritated. “You said the missing item was the Countess of Denton’s necklace. The earl has three residences in the country. The closest of which is in Kensington. You said we had to be there within the hour. Balance of probability is—”

“Get dressed and call John. We don’t have much time to—Are you wearing perfume?”

Embarrassment immediately flooded Sherlock’s cheeks. “No.” He sidestepped Lestrade and walked to the window, peering out into the street. _Three police cars. Lights flashing. Definite high priority. Twenty minutes to Kensington at that rate. Stall for more time._

Lestrade, unfortunately, was like a dog with a bone. “Then why do you smell … floral?”

Sherlock scanned the street. It took him a few minutes, but he eventually spotted them. _Three. No, four._ That should be more than enough protection for tonight. Not that he expected to need Mycroft’s newly-purchased security detail to get what he wanted from the earl.

There was a loud, sniffing sound. “Lavender? It’s definitely lavender. Why do you smell like my gran? Are you trying to cover up the scent of something else? Furthermore, why are you still standing out here? You need to get dressed. We should already be on our way! Wait! Why did you take so long in the loo? What were you really doing in there?” Lestrade stopped this absurd tirade of questions and started sniffing around like some kind of bloodhound.

Sherlock checked his watch. Molly’s fifteen minutes were nearing their end. He grabbed her purse from its place on the floor next to the sofa and strode to the currently open lounge door. “Mrs. Hudson!” he shouted. “It’s time.”

A noise sounded from the lavatory.

“What is that?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock wondered how the man ever solved a single case on his own. “A hair dryer,” he said.

Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest like a hunter about to close in on his prey. “But who’s in the loo using this hair dryer, eh?”

“Molly.” Sherlock opened his mouth to call for Mrs. Hudson again— _Where is she?—_ but Lestrade’s next statement gave him pause.

“Wrong! I know for a fact that Molly’s scheduled to work today. Are you taking drugs again? Is that it? Jesus, Sherlock.” He grabbed his phone and punching his finger against the screen. “We don’t have time for this right now.”

Sherlock narrowed his focus. “How do you know Molly’s schedule?”

Lestrade kept tapping on his phone. “I memorized it.”

“Why?”

The gray-haired man seemed bewildered by Sherlock’s sudden anger and completely unaware of the dangerous path he was treading. “I always memorize the schedule for the morgue at Bart’s. Most of our cases end up over there, and it saves time to know who’ll I’ll be working with—especially if I’m going to have to call _you_ in to consult. Not all the doctors over there will work with you, you know.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth, more than aware of this. He walked over and snatched the mobile from the policeman’s hands before he could send the text he’d just finished typing.

“What are you doing? Give that back! Mycroft said—”

Sherlock deleted the message and returned the phone. Apparently, the elder Mr. Holmes had taken his “Save Sherlock from Himself” crusade on the road. _Just wait until I see you, brother dear._ “Do yourself a favor and ignore any past or future warnings and/or directives Mycroft might give you concerning me, Lestrade.”

“Mycroft worries about you and with your past drug use, he has a right to. You shot a man in cold blood, Sherlock! You think I wouldn’t know about that? The government might have hushed it up, but I got my ways of finding out things. Plus, your brother is a powerful man. You can’t just expect me to—”

“Mycroft has been sacked from his position within the government.” Sherlock paused to enjoy that fact for the barest of seconds. “I think you’ll find him decidedly power _less_ when it comes to putting undue pressure on your superiors at the Met.”

“You didn’t mind Mycroft putting pressure on my superiors when it helped you be able to consult on _my_ cases.”

“Just as you didn’t mind when I started _solving_ your cases.”

Lestrade was stopped from replying by the appearance of Mrs. Hudson, who bustled in carting a pink, rounded plastic case. Sherlock handed the older woman Molly’s bag and waved her towards the bedroom. “You can set up in there. She’s nearly ready for you.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded calmly, exchanged brief greetings with Lestrade, and went into his bedroom. Sherlock congratulated himself on warning the landlady earlier of what would be happening. She hadn’t liked receiving a series of text messages from him in the middle of the night, but she’d still agreed to help. Besides, having her panic over the police showing up at his flat—even though this had become quite a common thing over the years—would only make things worse. Sherlock’s unfortunate but brief incarceration over the Magnussen shooting had left its mark on her.

“ _She_? Who is this ‘she’ waiting on Mrs. Hudson?” Lestrade demanded.

The hair dryer in the loo fell silent.

“Who’s in there, Sherlock?”

Sherlock gathered the last dregs of his patience before he answered. “I’ve already told you this. Molly is in there. She is getting ready for our date, a date which your presence is interrupting.”

“Why is Molly Hoop—” Lestrade stopped, eyeing the lavatory door and then darting a glance back at Sherlock. “Hold on. You and Molly … Holy shit! You mean that preposterous text about you two being together wasn’t just you taking the piss?”

“Honestly, I’ve never understood that particular expression, but to answer your rather rude question … No, the text regarding my arrangement with Molly was in earnest.”

“But that would mean … and you were in the loo a long time and then you came out half-dressed and smelling like ….” Lestrade trailed off and slumped into Sherlock’s former seat, seemingly unable to continue.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. _Idiots. I’m surrounded by idiots._

“Oh my God,” Lestrade moaned. “Never thought I’d see the day. You and _Molly_? Aren’t you gay or something?”

Ignoring this, Sherlock sent a text to Wiggins.

 _Leaving in 20 mins._  
Be ready.  
SH  


“Molly and _you_? Really? Shit! I owe Anderson twenty quid.”

With a sigh, Sherlock checked his watch. Ten after seven. “Molly, your time is up!”

Lestrade stood and started pacing, shaking his head back and forth as he went. “It’s like the first sign of the apocalypse or something. You and Molly _…_ You and _anyone_ for that matter—I mean, it’s just … bizarre. Truly bizarre.”

“If you’re done processing, I’d like to—” Sherlock found his speech cut off suddenly as he was unceremoniously slammed back against the wall, Lestrade’s hands fisted around his neck, choking off air. Much, much later, he would understand that he should have taken into account the policeman’s deep and abiding friendship with Molly, anticipated this reaction, and made allowances for it. But, in the moment, all he could do was struggle to free himself from the man’s vicelike grip.

Lestrade brought his face bare inches from Sherlock’s and growled, “I don’t care how smart you are, how many bleeding cases you solve, who your brother is, or what it might cost me. You hurt Molls, and I kill you.” He increased his hold ever so slightly. “And, what’s more, I’ll _enjoy_ it. Got it?”

Ceasing his struggle, Sherlock gave as much of a nod as he could manage. After all, he was fast running out of oxygen and he really didn’t want to hurt Lestrade. Time was running short, and there was an important case afoot.

“Good,” Lestrade said, releasing him and stepping back. He took a moment to straighten his dark jacket and that tie.

Sherlock swallowed, unconsciously running a hand over his neck as he tried to recoup what was left of his dignity. “Your wife is wrong. That tie clashes horribly with your suit.”

“Yeah? Well, your—” Lestrade broke off as something else caught his attention. “Molly? Is that you?”

“Hello, Greg. Good to see you.”

Turning, Sherlock spied Molly. It was like a punch to the solar plexus. Even though he’d carefully selected each item she wore, even though he’d been able to imagine how lovely she’d look … It didn’t matter. Reality was so very different.

_Exquisite._

His brain screamed a warning at him. It took him a minute to register the problem. _Oh yes. Breathe_. He took in oxygen, expelled carbon dioxide, and brought in more oxygen. _Better._ His eyes remained fixed on the woman before him.

_So very exquisite._

It wasn’t the powder blue, floor-length, chiffon sheath she wore which made her look unrealistically tall and angelic. It wasn’t the lace, scooped bodice with its half-cap sleeves that showed off her shoulders and the sculpted arches of her clavicles or the row of tightly-sewn crystals which belted the gown and emphasized her waist. It wasn’t her hair, crowning her head in twin braids and bejeweled pins with loose wisps framing her face. It wasn’t even the makeup Mrs. Hudson had been far too liberal with.

No, none of these were the reason he found himself spellbound by the sight of her. It was the way she held herself, walking so confidently into the room, the gentle smile on her face, and the sparkle in her eyes—a mystery, a promise, and a challenge all in one. His first instinct was to smile at her. His second was to throw Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade out of the flat and to take his time removing every layer from this incredible woman until they were both mussed, naked, and intensely satisfied.

_The case, the earl, and Moriarty be damned._

There was a choking sort of sound next to him. _What? Who? Oh, yes,_ _Lestrade._

Finally, the man seemed to come to himself. “You’re … you’re … beautiful.”

“Of course she is,” Sherlock snapped.

“But … What happened to you?”

 _And people say I have no tact._ Sherlock glared at the detective inspector and looked back just in time to see Molly nearing them. The sparkle in her eyes increased as she drew closer. She handed the black pouch containing his drug paraphernalia to Lestrade. “Do me a favor, Greg. Dispose of this. Sherlock doesn’t need it anymore.”

“Is this …? Is it …?” Lestrade sputtered.

“Yep,” Molly said, popping the “p.”

“But I can’t just take this without—”

“You can, and you will,” She gifted him with a hard look. “For me.”

Lestrade deflated like a popped balloon. “If you’re sure.”

Molly turned back to Sherlock, love, trust, and a wealth of other emotions he couldn’t begin to decipher in her expression. She grinned. “I’m sure.”

The knot in his stomach, which had been his constant companion for far too long, tightened to a truly painful degree before abruptly releasing and flooding him with an overwhelming sense of happiness and contentment. It was a frightening experience, but he held his ground. His first instinct was to back away, to leave—post haste. He didn’t. No, Sherlock just stood there, looking down at Molly and mirroring her grin. The longer he looked at her, the more everything within him seemed to calm to a more respectable degree.

Then, of course, Molly had to go and shake things up.

Without warning, Molly grabbed Sherlock by his robe with both hands, jerked him down, and kissed him. Just as quickly as the embrace began, it ended.

She stepped back. “Thank you, Sherlock. For everything. I’ve never owned anything so beautiful. I feel like Cinderella.”

The unexpected nature of her action—as well as the mortification of public affection—made Sherlock’s head spin. He blinked, trying to recover himself. Thankfully, he wasn’t so out of sorts that he didn’t put together why Molly had acted this way with everyone standing about. It had less to do with gratitude and more to do with her returning the stolen Denton necklace into his possession. It now resided in the pocket of his robe. The subtle nature and ease of Molly’s action honestly left him far more aroused than her appearance, the unconditional trust in him she’d just exhibited, or the abrupt kiss. Once again, he was sorely tempted to delay this case. An hour or two would be all he’d need. Molly licked her lips.

 _Or a week. Yes, a week’s delay is nothing at this point. Right?_ He fisted his hands, unused to abstaining when he wanted something as badly as he wanted Molly. He closed his eyes, focusing himself. _Denton first. Molly later._

Lestrade’s mobile went off. Issuing an expletive, the older man shoved the pouch under his arm as he hurried into the hallway to answer the phone.

Molly opened her mouth, but Sherlock interrupted, aware she’d forgotten about their other guest. “Mrs. Hudson, you are an artist. She’s a vision. Thank you for your assistance.”

The landlady, blushed and waved a hand in Molly’s direction. “Happy to lend a hand, dears.”

When the older woman just stood there staring bemusedly at them, Sherlock sighed and said, “Do you have some comment you’d like to make on the state of my relationship with Molly?”

Mrs. Hudson gave a little laugh. “I have told you and told you, Sherlock. Live and let live. That’s my motto. As long as you’re happy, I’m certainly not going to judge.” She nodded at both of them as she headed for the door. “Both of you have a good evening. I’ll return later to collect my things and to clean the lavatory. You left it in quite a state, young man!”

Once they were alone, Sherlock stared down at Molly. “I know you have questions. They’ll need to wait until we get in the cab.”

“OK. Do I at least get to know where we’re going?”

“To see Earl Denton, of course.”

She made a sweeping motion over herself. “Yes, but why do I need to be dressed like this to do that?”

He chuckled as he headed off to change in his bedroom. “Because, Cinderella, I’m taking you to the ball.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I keep getting asked, I have posted photos on my Tumblr account which represent close approximations of what Molly is wearing to the ball. This was actually complicated for me because I made up everything in my head and had to go back to find close approximates later on. So, these pictures aren't exact by any means. Still, as I keep getting asked, I figured I would share. On Tumblr, I am Miso-Fanfic. Feel free to follow me. You can also do a search for #Return Engagement.


	41. The River

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Molly jolted at Greg’s shout. Sherlock, for his part, merely turned to give the detective inspector a chiding sneer. “That should be fairly obvious,” he said. “I’m hailing a cab.” He looked back towards the street, hand still raised in the air. “Taxi!”

“Three police cars are right here. You’ll ride in one of them. You’ve already cocked it all up as it is, making us late.”

“And you think standing here arguing with me is going to get us there faster?” Sherlock retorted. “Taxi!”

“Knowing you, you’re going to ride off to who knows where and leave me holding the bag like a great pillock. Probably get a good laugh out of it, too.”

“I’m taking the case, Lestrade. Clearly.”

“How is it clear? Here are you and Molly, dressed to the nines and going out together. You haven’t called John—at least not to my knowledge. On top of that, you haven’t asked for any more details concerning the case and you’re refusing to ride in the police car which will take you to said case. What other conclusion can I make from all of that?” Greg countered. “I’m not a complete moron, no matter what you may think.”

“We’ll agree to disagree on that one. As for the rest, John is busy with Mary and the baby, you’ve emailed me the file and photos of the case, and I avoid riding in police cars whenever possible. You know this.”

Sherlock stepped up as a black cab stopped near the curb. He held out a hand, ushering Molly into the vehicle. Knowing better than to ask questions, Molly got in and slid over. Sherlock followed shortly thereafter, pulling the door closed behind him.

Greg, unfortunately, caught it before it could latch. “But why bring Molly?”

Sherlock gave the sigh of a man who has been heavily put upon, which Molly could believe was how he felt right about now. “We—as I have already pointed out to you—have a date this evening.”

 _Date? We do?_ Molly bit her lip to keep from blurting any of that out. The very idea of Sherlock telling anyone he was taking her on a date was ludicrous. _Well_ , she considered, _unless one knew he was only doing it for a case_. Then it made complete sense.

Greg snorted. “Really romantic, Romeo. Have you ever thought that perhaps Molly deserves better than to be dragged along while you solve crimes?”

“I would remind you that you interrupted our plans and that I’m doing you a large favor by agreeing to meet with the earl and countess concerning her missing item. I’ve no doubt I’ll have it solved in no time, which will allow Molly and me to continue on our date as planned. Now, if you’ll excuse me?” With a quick move, he had Greg’s hands off the door and it shut.

Using the fact that the back window was partly down, Greg said, “But you don’t even know where we’re going! The earl and countess aren’t at their home anymore.”

“Yes, which is why we’re heading to Highclere Castle.” Sherlock turned to the cabbie. “Move on.”

And, with that, they were on their way. Sherlock said nothing for a long while, just clicked through messages and emails on his phone. Finally, when he was done with this, he returned his phone to the pocket of his Belstaff, sat back against the seat, and closed his eyes. When he remained this way longer than a few minutes, she knew what he was doing. _Mind palace_. She could tell he was nervous to meet the earl—well as nervous as Sherlock could get. Knowing him, he was probably more excited right now than anything else.

As for Molly, her mind was a muddle, trying to figure everything out. _We’re going to a castle? Highclere Castle? Why does that name sound so familiar?_ There were so many more questions, but those were a trial since she found herself greatly distracted by Sherlock’s outfit. She’d never seen him so well dressed before. Sherlock on a normal day was gorgeous, but Sherlock with his hair all slicked back and garbed in full evening dress with a white waistcoat and bowtie was … divine. _That outfit certainly wasn’t in the bag William brought in, which means Sherlock already had it in his wardrobe, which means he—_

“Molly, whatever you’re thinking is proving to be very distracting to me.”

She gasped, pulling her sheer blue wrap closer to herself. “Sorry.” She focused on the seat in front of her, refusing to admit what she had been thinking. “We’re going to a ball?”

Sherlock kept his eyes closed as he answered. “Yes. Queen Charlotte’s Ball.”

“ _The_ Queen Charlotte’s Ball?”

“Oh, you’ve heard of it? Wonderful. Saves me having to explain.”

There was a bit of silence as she realized he wasn’t going to give her any further information. “But why would the earl be there?”

“His daughter is a debutante set to make her debut tonight. It was on his schedule. There are plenty of things he might ignore or put off, but as a devoted father, this would not be one of them.”

Molly, eyeing the cabbie anxiously, leaned closer to Sherlock and whispered, “So you took the necklace, knowing it was worth so much and the higher ups would pull strings to demand its return in order to appease the earl and his wife. The quickest way to ensure that is to get you on the case. That means they call Greg, who—thanks to the fact that Mycroft was sacked—is now the easiest way to get to you. So, they send him to collect you. But he came too early and would have wanted us to go to the earl’s residence, which I’m assuming the earl was not at. So, you stalled long enough so we’d have to meet him at the ball, where he was sure to be because his daughter is coming out. Thus, you get a meeting with the man who has been eluding you for a week.” She shook her head. “You are truly brilliant. Reckless as all get out, but brilliant.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and frowned at her. “Cease flirting with me, woman. I’m working.”

He closed his eyes again. To soften his rebuke, he slung an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. Molly grinned to herself and relaxed into his side. The anxiety she had concerning Sherlock running in the back of her mind—it always was—had become muted from the moment he’d handed her his drug pouch. She felt like a true partner to him now, an equal—if such a thing were ever truly possible. He trusted her, completely. She trusted him just the same. _With my life, it seems_. Anxiety welled again, but she refused to dwell on it. _Not tonight. Tonight I’m on an adventure with the one and only Sherlock Holmes while dressed in the most beautiful gown ever created._ A flicker excitement shot through her. She smiled.

Minutes passed in quiet, the only sounds were the sirens of the police cars in front and back of them and the ambient noise of London traffic at night. Molly’s hand rose up, idly touching the silver, crystal, and pearl wreath necklace about her neck. It perfectly matched the silver and pearl teardrop earrings she wore and made her feel like a true princess.

“Mrs. Hudson was so sweet,” she said, more to herself than to Sherlock. “Not only did she fix my hair and makeup, but she lent me her jewelry. I must find some way to repay her kindness.”

Sherlock grunted but made no other reply.

— **RE—**

_Don’t panic._

There were two things Molly Hooper realized as she and Sherlock entered the ballroom of Highclere Castle. First, the amount of sweat she was currently producing was never going to come out of this dress and two, she was not made for espionage. She’d always suspected the latter was the case, but tonight really brought that fact home to her. She couldn’t seem to keep her mind in one place or worry from gnawing at her insides. All the calm from the cab ride had vanished the second they’d pulled up to this awe-inspiring bastion of the small screen.

 _No. Don’t think about that. Calm down. You’re on a case. Sherlock wouldn’t have brought you if he didn’t need you. He’s done it before._ You’ve _done it before._

Of course, when she helped him fake his death, she’d been working behind the scenes after being given the full details of what Sherlock needed for her to do. And that one time they went out on cases together hardly counted because she hadn’t done more than just take a few notes, get in his way, and remind herself over and over again that she’d been an engaged woman and engaged women really shouldn’t stare like drooling idiots at men who were not their fiancés.

 _Focus._ _What should you do?_ _Observe. I should observe._

The ballroom was packed.

_No shit. Try better. Look carefully._

Excitement, flowers, fear, food, and expensive cologne intermingled in the crush of humanity. The walls were a mix of thick, cream-colored panels, and long murals painted centuries beforehand. Three colossal, crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, hung in a pretty row from the ceiling. Every gilded sconce, marble column, and wrought iron and maple railing were decorated with flowers and ribbons. Round tables covered in golden cloths, topped with extravagant centerpieces, and set with the best china were spaced equidistantly apart, a crush of people sitting, standing, and eating around them. Men—some in military uniforms and others in full evening dress—debutantes in tiaras and a sea of ivory silk and lace designer ballgowns, older women in sleek, darker-hued frocks, and liveried servants rushing here and there.

_Strangers, every one._

A band of musicians played at one end of the massive room, a parqueted dance floor set up in front of them. Couples swayed and moved in stately, seemingly well-practiced patterns. The music was loud and up tempo, but it needed to be in order to be adequately heard over the din of the people. Off to the side, a curved wide-mouthed staircase opened into the room, offering the perfect entrance point for any woman looking to be the center of attention.

Sculpted archways offered respite to anterooms for those who sought it. The domed, painted ceiling overhead made the room seem smaller than it was. A second floor was visible, the lavishly decorated railing allowing those above stairs to look down on those below. Everything was so big, so opulent, so … very … imposing. It rushed at her all at once.

 _What am I doing here? I’m a pathologist, not an investigator. This is what John is for. I’m a hindrance at best and a liability at worst. I—_ Molly stopped herself. _No._ Those kind of thoughts were irrelevant at this point. Sherlock wanted her here. Clearly, he thought she could provide some kind of assistance.

 _Unless there’s gonna be a dead body, I don’t see how._ She shot a brief glance at Sherlock, who scanned the room and seemed to be waiting for someone or something. “Do you see him?” Molly asked.

“Who?”

“The earl, of course.” As Molly had never seen a photo of the man, she had no clue what he might look like.

“No.”

His lack of response beyond this only drove Molly to further bouts of panic. By contrast, Sherlock seemed in his element. Calm and relaxed. This should have calmed her, but it only made her worry more. _What happened to his nerves from before? Moreover, why are we just standing here? What if someone comes up to us? They’re bound to notice we don’t belong, and then what?_

“Are we going to go locate the earl?” she tried again.

“No need. Lestrade and the others will find us when it’s time.” Sherlock didn’t bother to look at her when he said this. Just kept standing there waiting.

He was still wearing his Belstaff over his evening dress. She wondered if he was overheated. He didn’t appear so. She’d left her wrap with one of the policemen outside because she knew she’d be too warm to keep up with it.

 _What are you doing? Focus on the case._ The problem was, of course, she had no clue what they would do now. Of course, Sherlock would speak to the earl. But what would he say? It wasn’t as if he could just come out about the professor. Or could he? The not knowing was driving her mad. It also led her to think of all the ways this plan could go terribly wrong.

“Are we going to get in trouble being out here? I mean, this is Highclere Castle. They filmed _Downton Abbey_ here,” Molly hissed, unable to stop gawking at everything around her as she devolved into full panic mode. “Of course, it didn’t look exactly like this on the show. They must have filmed the interior scenes elsewhere. Maybe in another room. Meena is never going to believe me when I tell her I was actually here.”

“Downtown what?” Sherlock asked. “What are you talking about?”

Molly rolled her eyes at Sherlock’s lack of appreciation concerning popular television and tried another tactic. “Greg is sure to be bothered. Maybe we should—”

“Greg who? Is that one of the policemen who came in with Lestrade?”

Molly stopped gaping like a fish at everything to scowl at him. “You aren’t this oblivious. You know Greg is Lestrade’s first name.”

“If I did, I deleted it.”

“Why?”

“I call him Lestrade. Everyone knows to whom I’m referring to when I say ‘Lestrade.’ I remember his title, detective inspector, and I solve most of his cases. Must I really take up precious space on my hard drive trying to remember the man’s first name? Besides, he doesn’t look like a Greg. Certainly, his first name should start with a G. That’s obvious. But Greg? What kind of name is that? Geoffrey, Giles, or even Godfrey I could certainly understand. Those are good, strong English names. But Greg?” he snorted with disdain.

“Greg means ‘watchful.’ I think it fitting, given his occupation.” Molly said, crossing her arms over her chest— _which was hard to do in this dress_. “Besides, with a name like yours, you shouldn’t be so quick to judge, _William Sherlock Scott Holmes_.”

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. “I’m going to kill John.”

Molly broke into a smile. “Mary actually told me.”

“Yes, but _he_ told her; so I still get to kill him.”

Something occurred to her. “Is that why you don’t like me calling William Wiggins by his first name? Because it’s also your first name?”

“Of course not. It’s because his name is _Billy_.”

Sherlock’s reply came too fast to ever be believable. Molly decided to drop that particular line of questioning. “Well, I like your full name. It sounds very stately.”

“Yes, that and Mummy is a fan of the number three. _Very_ important to her. But numbers are always important to mathematicians. She wrote three books. No more, no less. She made Dad have three wedding ceremonies. One at the courthouse, one in the church, and one at home. Thus, it was only logical that she give each of her sons three names each. The first name after an English king, the second after a family member, and the last after a famous mathematician. Apparently, I had a great-great uncle named Alfred Sherlock who was some kind of famous violinist. Hence, the reason Mummy insisted I learn the violin. I suppose I should be thankful she didn’t choose Vernet instead. We are distantly related to him, you know.”

“Vernet the painter, you mean?’

Sherlock nodded as if this was nothing special. To him, it probably wasn’t. _My God_ , Molly thought, _how long exactly has genius been running in his family?_ “And a famous mathematician named Scott? Scott who?”

“Charlotte Angas Scott, British mathematician very famous for furthering the education of women in the field. As a woman who has made quite a name for herself in a male-dominated arena, you have my permission to be suitably impressed, Molly _Katherine_ Hooper.”

Molly grinned at him, not the least bit surprised he’d found out her full name. After all, it was on her diplomas from uni, something he had no doubt seen during one of the many times he’d been to her flat. “I’m more impressed that you managed to distract me from my panic. Still, Greg is going to be put out when he finds us here. He was very pointed about telling us to remain in the front foyer.”

Sherlock shrugged. “He’ll get over it.” The music changed to something slow and more lilting, and he smiled. “Perfect. Now, on to more important business.”

“And what is that?”

He took off his Belstaff, hanging it over one of the chairs pressed against the wall. He then turned and formally, held out a hand. “They’re playing a waltz. Shall we?”

The panic returned in full force. “No.”

“Why? This is a date. Dancing is something traditionally done on dates, is it not?” He looked unsure for the first time all evening.

“Sherlock, this is a case. Not a date. You only told Greg that to explain my presence.”

One eyebrow rose at her statement. “Did I? Well, then in order to maintain our cover, we should dance. Wouldn’t want the detective inspector to get suspicious.”

“No. No. No.” Molly shook her head. “I can’t dance. You know this.”

“I taught John. I can teach you.”

That stopped Molly short. “You taught John to dance?”

“Yes,” he said with a self-assured nod. “The waltz, especially. For his wedding. He wasn’t that bad. Caught on quick. I also taught Janine. She didn’t catch on as quickly.”

“You … and John … waltzed … together?” The mere image of Sherlock and John prancing about the flat in each other’s arms left Molly in a fit of giggles.

Sherlock scoffed, offended. “Physical demonstration is a perfectly acceptable means of educating someone. How else would you have me do it? It’s how I learned with Mycroft.”

Molly nearly collapsed under the weight of her mirth. It was only Sherlock catching hold of her about the waist that kept her on her feet. But all of her humor faded the second he steadied her, placed her hand in the crook of his elbow, and forcefully escorted her onto the dance floor.

“But—”

“Do you trust me?” he asked, placing one of her hands on his shoulder and taking the other in his own.

“Yes.”

“Good.” He put his free hand on her waist. She was well and fully in his embrace. “Let’s go.”

Molly had always loved this part in films, when the pretty, but the blundering girl gets to dance with the gorgeous man and, even though she doesn’t have a clue how to do so, somehow just being in his capable arms is enough to make her the flawless dance partner.

Reality, however, was very different than film.

“Sorry!” she said as she stomped on Sherlock’s foot for the third time and nearly took out a father and daughter pair next to them.

Wincing, Sherlock pulled them to a halt in the middle of the dance floor, uncaring how this affected the other couples revolving about them. “Molly, you have to maintain the frame and follow my lead. Good posture is vital.”

Wanting to crawl into a hole and die of mortification, Molly said, “Is this the part where you give me the lecture about this being your dance space and that being mine and say ‘spaghetti arms’?”

Sherlock looked at her blankly. “What?”

“We watched _Dirty Dancing_ together right after I moved in. You seemed to like it. At least, you didn’t complain as much as you usually do. One would think you’d have remembered it.”

“I always delete unimportant stuff. Your crying films undoubtedly fall under that category,” he said, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. “Now stop overthinking this. It’s a plain box pattern choreographed to a 3-4 time signature. You simply mirror my steps. When I come forward, you move back. When I move back, you come forward.”

Molly ducked left, narrowly avoiding a couple waltzing by. The longer they stood out here not dancing, the more conspicuous they became. “I know that. But I’m not graceful. Never have been. I’m short. I’m clumsy. I can’t stop looking at my feet. It won’t work.”

“You forget, I’ve seen you perform an autopsy before. No one is more graceful or steady with a scalpel than you are.”

“Well this isn’t a post-mortem, is it? It’s worse.”

“Do you trust yourself?”

“No.”

He seemed taken aback by this admission. When Molly couldn’t stand to see the disappointment she knew would be flooding his face at any moment, she looked down. His hand came down to tip it back upwards. She didn’t see disappointment in his expression. She only saw a man who was deadly serious.

“You are beautiful. You are smart. You are not short. You’re petite. And you might be clumsy occasionally, but not tonight. Tonight, you are graceful. Tonight, you are a _dancer_. Do you understand?”

“Sherlock, that is very sweet, but—”

“I love to dance.”

That left her speechless. In fact, it was the last thing she would have ever expected him to say. She just gaped up at him.

“I know,” he said. “Shocking, but it’s true. Always have loved it. Besides solving crimes, it is my favorite thing to do. It’s just not something I have a lot of time for. But tonight is a time, and I want to dance with you. Been looking forward to it all day.” He leaned down, giving her the puppy dog expression she hadn’t seen in quite a while. “Will you, Molly? For me?”

And, somehow, these became the magic words needed for her to reclaim her confidence. _He’s been thinking about this all day?_ Her heart melted in her chest at the mere thought. Molly smiled and returned her hands to the correct position. “Logic tells me to find a nice corner to hide in, but you aren’t going to let me disappoint you, are you?”

“Nope,” he said with a grin.

“Well, if I trip and take out the whole dance floor, it’s on your head.”

“Fair enough,” he said with a wink. “Besides, no one puts Molly in a corner.” He took her in his arms.

Surprised she smiled up at him. “You do remember.”

“I always remember time spent with you,” he said and swept her across the floor.

It was the single greatest thing he’d ever said to her. With a contented sigh, Molly ceased thinking and allowed herself to be in the moment. She was in the capable arms of the man she loved, dressed in a beautiful gown, and dancing at a ball at Downtown Abbey. She felt light, airy, and free. Sherlock was a wonderful dancer and an accomplished partner. In his arms, she whirled about, a swan among swans instead of the usual ugly duckling. She wasn’t sure how or why all this had happened. She didn’t care. She only knew she never wanted this moment to end.

But, unfortunately, it had to.

— **RE—**

The study they were shown into was quite unremarkable considering its location. It held the standard filled oak bookcases along two walls as well as a pair of damask settees placed opposite of each other with a table in the middle set with a chessboard and pieces. There was also one tufted wingback chair, an unlit brick fireplace, a silver liquor trolley with glasses, a large globe on a stand, and a heavy monstrosity of a desk, which took up one side. Behind the desk sat the Earl of Denton. The countess, seated on the closest settee nursing a glass of champagne, rose as they entered. The stiff fabric of her plum brocade dress rustled as she moved forward.

Lestrade’s superior, a balding man whose name and title Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to remember, rushed over to the woman, expressing effusive apologies for their tardiness and promises that her jewelry would be back in her possession shortly. He turned, making the introductions of Lestrade and Sherlock while completely ignoring Molly. Molly, Sherlock could tell, was trying to make herself invisible near the now-closed door.

“You’ve kept us waiting for quite a while, Mr. Holmes,” the countess, a blonde in her forties, said.

Sherlock made no reply as his attention was focused on the earl. The man, clearly in his sixties, had a shock of ginger hair mixed with strands of gray, thick black glasses, and the weight of the world on his shoulders. At least, that’s the impression one got until they looked in his watery green eyes. A wealth of intelligence lay there, as if all the world’s secrets resided in one place. The earl’s gaze was piercing, intense, and just as interested in gathering data as Sherlock’s.

“We were told to expect you much earlier,” the countess continued, wringing her hands in an agitated manner—more agitated than missing jewelry usually warranted. “What have you to say for yourself?”

Ignoring Lestrade’s superior, who began rushing through another round of apologies, Sherlock said, “I don’t work for New Scotland Yard.”

The countess and the superior sputtered in outrage while Lestrade tried to run interference. Sherlock, uncaring of all of this, kept his focus on the earl.

“Enough,” the older gentleman said, rising from his position. His voice was whisper soft, but the effect of his command was instantaneous. The room fell silent.

The earl’s suit moved with him in such a way to make Sherlock want to request the name of his tailor. It was a masterpiece of craftsmanship. Not one seam was off, no hint of a wrinkle, and all folds as they should be. Or, maybe it wasn’t the suit making the man after all. He was the kind of person for whom evening wear was created. It flattered his wiry, yet manly figure, enhanced his broad shoulders, and gave him the appearance of power. _Not that he needs that._

It was also cleaned within an inch of its life. No trace of a crumb or stray hair could be seen as the earl rounded the desk and closed in on Sherlock and his wife. He held his hand out to shake. “Pleased to meet you at last, Mr. Holmes. I’ve known your brother for years, and I must say you’re certainly living up to your reputation.”

Sherlock shook his hand. “Well, I’d hate to disappoint.”

Besides his wedding ring, a signet ring, and a watch, the earl’s hands and arms were bare. Even the gold cufflinks at the edges of his sleeves were simple and unexceptional. Sherlock was unwillingly reminded of his initial meeting with The Woman.

He looked back at the countess, needing to reestablish himself. _Requires glasses, but refuses to wear them because she thinks they make her look older than she is. That’s her third—no fourth—glass of champagne for the evening._ His eyes caught on the empty flute on the side table by the settee. _She brought it for the earl, but he declined so she decided to consume it herself. Hand shaking. Can’t stop fiddling with her hair. Excitement? Nerves? Worry?_ His eyes drifted down as the countess briefly rested her hand against her the bodice of her gown. It reminded him of the way pregnant women often touched their stomachs. _Mobile in her cleavage. Doesn’t want to be away from it._

Seeming uncomfortable in the palatable tension of the room, Lestrade offered, “Sherlock has had a chance to look over all the case files and photos. He feels he can get this settled in no time.”

“What?” the countess gasped. “Without looking at the crime scene?”

Lestrade gave a resolute nod. “Sherlock doesn’t always need to visit the scene to figure things out, my lady. He’s a professional.”

“Yes,” the earl said, “I have no doubt now that Mr. Holmes is indeed on the job.”

There was something quite telling in Denton’s tone. _He knows why I’m here. He’s been expecting me._

“Good. Then you won’t mind if we clear the room so you and I can talk,” Sherlock said. He smiled in a way he knew showed no true joy. “All part of the process. I’m sure you understand.”

The countess’ eyes widened in fear. _Interesting. That._ The superior raised a fuss.

Denton waved dismissively, shutting the man down. “Of course.”

“But, Frederick—” the countess began.

Denton rounded on his wife, taking her gloved hand in his and bringing it to his lips for a careful kiss. “Gabrielle will be wondering where we are. It’s her big night, after all. Go put her mind at ease, my love. I will handle this, and our valuables will be returned in no time.”

The couple’s eyes met with a deliberate intent, a wealth of information being exchanged. There was a brief, flash of affection on the earl’s face before he snuffed it out like candle flame. _Impressive._

Without another word, the countess turned. “Come,” she announced, ushering Lestrade and the superior out of the room, “we must leave them to it then.”

Sherlock felt Molly leave the room. But as she was with Lestrade, he didn’t give her another thought. Instead, he took off his Belstaff, feeling the weight of the necklace in his pocket as he draped it on the settee furthest from the door. He seated himself next to it and waited for his opponent to make the first move.

The earl stepped over to the trolley, making himself a drink. When he turned back, he held a glass of Cognac in one hand. He seated himself on the settee across from Sherlock. “I would have offered you one, but you never imbibe while on a case, do you? At least,” he added with a wistful laugh, “not alcohol.”

“You know my true purpose in being here.”

The earl took a sip of his beverage. “Just as you know there is very little I am at liberty to divulge to you. We are, you see, at an impasse.”

“Your loyalty to this country has always been absolute. Mycroft says it’s one of your best traits. Why align yourself with a madman like the professor?”

“Why do you take cases, especially those which all but guarantee someone is going to shoot at you? Mycroft told me you have the mind of a scientist or philosopher. Yet, you choose this as your profession. Why?”

“Piracy is currently illegal.”

A smile curled the edges of Denton’s mouth. “A pity, that. I imagine you’d be a sight to see, swinging a sword.”

“I am,” Sherlock agreed, giving his own brief smile.

Denton swirled the liquid in his glass, watching it go round and round. Finally, he put it down on the coffee table in front of them and turned his attention to the chessboard. He lifted a black pawn off the board, holding it aloft as he studied it. “Do you play, Mr. Holmes?”

“Actually, I’m a fan of Old Maid.”

Denton chuckled. “Yes, but with a brother like Mycroft, you must have experience with the game. Now that is a man with a gift for strategy. For myself, I’ve always preferred Risk or Stratego. The problem with any strategy game, of course, is that once you play with someone, it’s quite easy to beat them during future rounds.”

“Because you’ll be able to predict their moves.”

“Exactly! People rarely—if ever—change how they think. By the time I was eight, I’d grown bored with board games.” His eyes fell on the pawn again. “After all, once you know how to defeat someone, there’s no more fun left, is there?” He carefully replaced the piece on the board before slowly turning his eyes up at Sherlock. “So what do you say? Fancy a go?”

“No,” Sherlock said.

Denton nodded. “Probably for the best.” He reclaimed his glass, taking a delicate sip. He checked his watch and got to his feet.

Sherlock’s patience was at an end. “Enough of this. Tell me his plan.”

“Unfortunately, you’re out of time, Mr. Holmes. But it was a delight to meet you. Under other circumstances … Well, I suppose there are some things better left unsaid.”

He stepped towards the door, but Sherlock’s next statement stopped him. “Professor Moriarty won’t stop, you know. Men like him never stop. He used your boredom and love of puzzles and strategy. He knew it was your weakness. But think of your wife and children. This isn’t a game. People will be hurt.”

Denton kept his back to Sherlock as he answered. “I am well aware of who will be hurt and when. I am also glaringly aware that there is nothing that can be done to stop what is going to happen. It’s too late, Mr. Holmes. _You_ are too late.”

Sherlock was hindered from replying as Denton opened the door. Lestrade, the superior, and three policemen came inside. “Ah, just in time, gentlemen,” Denton said. He turned to point at Sherlock. “Arrest that man.”

“Arrest him?” Lestrade asked. “Why?”

Sherlock shot to his feet, but the earl was right. It was too late.

Denton’s tone was almost bored as he answered. “He’s the thief. He has the necklace. Search the pockets of his coat there on the settee. You’ll find it yourself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As many of you may or may not know, there really is a Queen Charlotte's Ball held annually in and around London. Every year it takes place at a different venue. In 2014, it did indeed take place at the famed Highclere Castle, the actual sight of the filming of the popular British show Downton Abbey. Queen Charlotte's Ball is an exclusive venue where daughters of the well-to-do are debuted. There is also dancing, tiaras, and a large cake all the debs bow to. The ball has been running almost every year since 1780, when King George III first organized the event as a way to celebrate his wife's birthday. It's renowned as the pinnacle event in the London Season and is rich in royal history—even though the royals no longer attend and it is now corporately sponsored. 
> 
> The ball is usually held in September of each year. So, you must forgive me for taking a bit of literary license by moving the castle a little closer than it actually would be to central London (where Sherlock lives), putting everything in one, large ballroom (with my own set of descriptions), and having the event take place in early summer instead of autumn for the purposes of my plot. 
> 
> Still, there are far worse places for Sherlock to take Molly on their first official "date," huh?


	42. Arrested Development

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I keep getting asked, I have posted photos on my Tumblr account which represent close approximations of what Molly is wearing to the ball. This was actually complicated for me because I made up everything in my head and had to go back to find close approximates later on. So, these pictures aren't exact by any means. Still, as I keep getting asked, I figured I would share. On Tumblr, I am Miso-Fanfic. Feel free to follow me. You can also do a search for #Return Engagement.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, like an initial domino falling forward, all others soon followed suit.

The superior hurried over to the settee, rifled through the Belstaff and within seconds, produced the box. After opening it and the subsequent velvet drawstring bag, he yielded the pilfered pendant, holding it aloft for all to see. “My God!” Appalled and incensed, he ordered his men forward. “Arrest Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock was unable to speak. Every bit of energy was relegated to brainwork as everything fell into place. _I should have accounted for this._ He’d briefly considered this outcome—this was Earl Denton he was dealing with, after all. But probability and the scant bit of evidence he’d managed to uncover had leaned another way. _And still might._ After all, there was a missing piece yet to be sorted.

_So not just to decipher a puzzle after all. That means—_

He came back to himself as his arms were pulled behind his back and handcuffs were administered. A policeman spoke—possibly to him—but Sherlock paid this little mind. There were other things afoot which required his attention.

Lestrade sputtered in outrage. “It can’t be. I’ve known Sherlock for years. He’s many things, but a jewel thief isn’t one of them!”

The superior sneered. “Then how do you explain this being on him?” he said, holding up the necklace again.

Lestrade struggled to answer. “I’m not sure, but I know there _is_ a rational explanation. There must be.” He looked to Sherlock. “Tell them, you great git. Explain yourself!”

Sherlock remained silent, but found himself astonished by the vehemence of the detective inspector’s defense of him. He’d certainly never expected it. _Perhaps I should go to the trouble of remembering his first name after all. What is it again? Gaylord?_

Policemen, now bracketing him on either side, prompted him toward the door.

“Wait, men. Don’t take him yet.” From the reddening of Lestrade’s face, his blood pressure was through the roof. He turned to plead with his supervisor. “Look at him, sir. What possible motive could he have for taking it? Jewel thieves steal for two reasons: Money and bragging rights. That’s not Sherlock. He probably solved the case before I even got to him and wanted to return the necklace in some dramatic, overly showy way. He’s theatrical like that.”

But his reasoning fell on deaf ears as the superior motioned the policemen to remove Sherlock from the room.

Lestrade got desperate. “This’ll never stick. Don’t you understand who his brother is?”

Denton answered him. “I believe you will find, Detective Inspector, that Mycroft Holmes, formerly of her majesty’s government, holds no influence here. As for motive, Mr. Holmes the younger has his own reasons for breaking into my residence and removing the item. Don’t you?” He sent Sherlock a sad, little smile before turning back to Lestrade. “But no worries. Within the hour, my assistant will deliver to your office video evidence unequivocally demonstrating his guilt. I’m no detective, of course, but I do believe this means the case is quite open and shut.”

“Yes, my lord,” the superior assured. “Of course, my lord.”

Denton eyed the superior with a bored expression. “I do hope that means the necklace will be returned to my wife in short order.”

“Yes, my lord, but, if you’ll allow me, I must say that you are as brilliant as they all say you are and—” the superior began.

“Yes, thank you,” Denton winced as he cut him off, as if having to listen to the man for one more second would be torture. Sherlock could understand that feeling.

Lestrade seemed ready to explode. “Say something, Sherlock!”

Sherlock finally complied. “Do remember to bring my coat, won’t you, Lestrade?  It would be a shame to lose it. Takes me forever to properly break one in. In fact, if you would be so kind as to collect all of the accoutrements I brought with me tonight and see them safely returned to my home, I would be forever in your debt.”

As expected, this ended Lestrade’s invective. The veteran policeman gave him a speculative look before managing a quick nod. Sherlock’s attention moved to the earl. A long moment passed as the two men stared each other down. There was a hint of vulnerability, of raw fear, in Denton’s expression before it suddenly went as blank as the screen of a mobile in need of a recharge. This told Sherlock everything he needed to know. It was as if Denton had transformed himself from human to machine in a matter of seconds. _A defensive mechanism. I must ask him how he does that. Such a skill could come in quite handy—especially when dealing with Mycroft._

Finally, Denton gave him a nod and said, “Goodbye, Mr. Holmes, and good luck.”

Sherlock deliberately made no reply. In fact, it wasn’t until the superior once more had ordered the men to take him from the room and the consulting detective had nearly crossed the threshold that he deigned to speak again. And when he did so, it was one specific word, aimed directly at the earl.

“Andre.”

**—RE—**

 

“Oi! You awake in there? Get up. They’re summoning you.”

Sherlock opened his eyes. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been here. With no window in his cell and the fact that they’d taken all of his personal possessions—barring his clothes—once his arrived, it was hard to tell. It felt like an eternity in this frigid cell. This brought with it an unwilling flashback of his incarceration following Magnussen’s death, but he forced that dark memory away. Thoughts of Molly equally threatened, but he held them at bay as well.

_Keep to the case._

If he was right, this summoning would set him free of this place. Of course, if he was wrong, this was likely a second round of ridiculous interrogation. The first one had ended in disappointment and humiliation for Lestrade’s superior when Sherlock stubbornly remained silent during the man’s long and public parade of boring questions.

 _Well,_ Sherlock remembered with a sly grin, _I did speak once._

Of course, his show of cheek had resulted in Sherlock being thrown into this dark, solitary hole of a room with its walls painted the color of excrement, a lumpy mattress with decidedly little back support, and the never-ending stench of vomit, disinfectant, and misery. He probed the edge of his sore nose, which was still crusted with blood from where the superior had punched him.

_Worth it._

“Get up, I said!” came the voice by the door again.

 _Well, whatever gets me out of here._ Swinging up from the bunk he’d been laying on, Sherlock got to his feet and walked to the door. Three men stood there, two sets of restraints held between them.

“Is all of that truly necessary?” he asked. “There are three of you, and I am at the Met. How do you imagine I’d manage an escape?”

“Just shut up, and move back.” This order came from his head jailer, a tall, rather rotund man who’d lost too much on his bet at the races yesterday, was battling a major crisps addiction, and based upon the intricacy of the tattoo at his wrist, had developed an unnatural affection for his pet parrot, Gertrude.

As logic dictated, Sherlock complied. The men shackled his hands and feet. Sherlock winced as they once again applied the restraints tighter than they needed to. He knew better than to complain as they ushered him down the long hallway. Once they finally reached the turn which took them by the regular holding cells, other prisoners made catcalls as Sherlock toddled along with the grace of a heavily pregnant woman. That he was still garbed in evening wear only made things worse.  

Finally, when they’d made it to the quiet of the outer corridor, the men guiding him decided to speak.

“Ask ’im, Jerry,” a second, younger man with a large, hawk-like nose said to the jailer. “They say ’e knows things. Came back from the dead, didn’t ’e? ’E might have an answer. How many chances like this ya fink ya gon’ get?” 

“Shut up, Ned. I’m not asking this punter anything, especially after that crack he made about the chief superintendent’s … you know.”

“That’s just a rumor. Couldn’t have really ’appened like that.”

“He’s got blood on his posh shirt, and his nose looks like it took a beating. The rumors are true.”

“But ya want ’er back, don’t ya?””

Bored within an ounce of wishing for death and seeing a way to free himself of his jailhouse jewelry a little sooner than expected, Sherlock idly said, “Gertrude, I take it, is missing?”

The men stopped, eliciting three sharp gasps of awe. Finally, Ned said, “See? Tol’ ya ’e was psychic.”

“Not psychic,” Sherlock corrected.

Ned, getting excited, said, “I mean, ’e probably knows lotto numbers, too. We could be rich!”

“ _Not_ psychic,” Sherlock repeated.

Jerry, now apparently on board with his friend, said, “What else should we ask him?”

“I dunno,” Ned said. “’’Ow about—”

“All right, I’m psychic!” Sherlock said, louder than before. Anything to shut them up.

Both men fell blissfully quiet. With a heavy sigh, he said, “I can answer your question, but I insist that in return you unlock these shackles and allow me to walk on my own.”

Ned seemed confused.

Jerry frowned. “You’re a dangerous criminal. How can we trust you won’t try to escape?”

“I am many things, but criminal is not one of them—something for which you should be exceedingly thankful.”

“That’s what a dangerous criminal would say,” Jerry said with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Fine,” Sherlock said. “Gertrude is undoubtedly better off without you, Jerry. I’m sure her present captor will remember how desperately she enjoys crisps—if he remembers to feed her at all.” He waddled forward, gritting his teeth against the chafing the restraints were giving his ankles.

Jerry’s hand clapped against his shoulder, halting him. “Fine, Mr. Psychic. We’ll release your shackles _after_ you tell us who has Gertrude.”

Sherlock turned, sizing up all three of them before he replied, “Counter offer. You release me now, and I promise to tell you _after_ you escort me to whichever room I’m being summoned.”

“Why should we trust you to keep your word?”

Sherlock decided honesty was the best policy. “I have no interest in being the recipient of another fist to my face.”

The men looked at each other, shrugged, and released Sherlock.

Rubbing at his sore wrists, Sherlock said, “Thank you.”

He was next led through the main office area and off to one of the hallways to an interrogation room. Once he reached the door, he turned to the three men and pointed at the last one, who’d remained silent this entire time.

“He is your bird-napper. My guess is that he’s holding the fair Gertrude as an IOU to make sure you’ll repay him the money you owe him.” Sherlock turned to the man. “Unfortunately, that’s going to take a bit longer than expected. Jerry lost everything yesterday at the races.”

All were silent in the wake of this news.

“Am I right?” Sherlock asked.

Jerry delivered a war cry before launching himself at the third man. Ned, ever the good friend, jumped into the resulting melee as well.

Intent on avoiding the raining blows, Sherlock edged out of the way as the scuffle moved to the ground. “Hmm,” he said to no one in particular. “Looks like three men and two sets of restraints wouldn’t stop me from escaping if I _truly_ had a mind to.” He winced as Jerry delivered a particular brutal uppercut to his opponent. “That’s going to leave a mark.”

“What the hell is going on here?”

Sherlock turned to find Lestrade staring at all of them, hands on his hips. “Do you know, Lestrade, you use that phrase quite a lot. Extensive reading would prove greatly beneficial in widening your vocabulary.”

“Everyone uses that phrase when you’re in the room, Sherlock,” Lestrade replied. He looked back towards the hallway from which he’d just come before turning the brawling men. “Oi! You three are going to be patrolling the loos for the next month if you don’t cut that out. Now!”

The men, thus reprimanded, rose to their feet. Jerry had cuts on both sets of knuckles and a swelling lip, Ned was sporting a black eye, and the last man, whose name was Waterford according to his uniform, took first place in the wound awards. He had a trail of blood coming from his head, a split lip, a broken nose, a pronounced limp, and two rips in his uniform trousers.

Lestrade took in the men before glaring at Sherlock. “You’re a menace.”

“Me? I didn’t hit anyone,” Sherlock replied, affecting his best innocent expression.

“You incite violence just by being around. I often have to hold myself off from taking a swing at you. You wouldn’t make it one day in real prison.” He wrenched open the door to the interrogation room. “Get in there.”

Sherlock obeyed, wisely withholding further comment. Lestrade followed behind him and turned to shut the door. However, his way was blocked by the three men, who were trying to force their way into the room. He turned his glower on them. “Get lost before I put the lot of you on report.”

“But the chief superintendent says we were not to leave this one alone. He’s a dangerous criminal,” Jerry said.

“And a psychic!” Ned added.

“Yeah,” Jerry quickly agreed. “That makes him even more dangerous!”

Waterford decided to finally pipe up. “Can we get those lotto numbers?”

Lestrade all but growled at them. “The chief superintendent has been sent home. I’m in charge of this one now. So, I’ll say this one last time. Get. Out. Now.” His low but menacing tone brooked no refusal.

The men left quickly, tripping over each other in their haste to get away.

Slamming the door behind him, Lestrade grumbled to himself as he marched to the lone table in the room. “I work with idiots. Bleedin’ morons, every one of them.”

“I understand the feeling,” Sherlock said.

Lestrade glared. “I still can’t believe you told the chief superintendent he was impotent.”

“He is,” Sherlock said. “Has been for some time, judging by the state of his sleeves.”

“His sleeves? What does—No, no, I’m not going down that rabbit hole with you. The point isn’t whether or not the man is working with faulty bedroom equipment, it’s that you didn’t have to announce it in front of three other inspectors, myself, and the deputy commissioner.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Your superior shouldn’t have considered it appropriate to bring all of those people in with him during my interrogation.”

“Don’t you realize—“ Lestrade cut himself off. “What am I saying? No, of course you don’t. You don’t care about the implications your actions take on my career at all, do you?”

Sherlock said nothing, just stared back at him. Finally, when he realized Lestrade expected an answer, he said, “Were you talking to me or yourself? It was difficult to tell.”

Lestrade growled and pointed at a chair, an indication for Sherlock to take a seat, before moving on to the wall. He pressed on it with the heel of his hand, which made a nearly invisible door pop open. After pushing a few buttons, he shut the door back.

Sherlock rubbed his wrists again, annoyed to see bruises forming there. “What time is it?”

“After midnight,” Lestrade answered, grabbing the unoccupied chair and, moving it to the camera placed in one corner near the ceiling, he climbed up, fiddled a moment with the back, and jumped back down. He then returned the chair to its place on the other side of the table. Lastly, he walked to the door, opened it enough to pop his head out, and said, “Just in here, my lord.”

Relief slammed into Sherlock’s chest, but he did his best to hide it.

“We’ll be able to speak privately?” the soft voice on the other side of the door asked.

“Yes. I’ve turned off all the equipment, as you requested,” Lestrade said.

There was a scuffle of movement before Denton appeared. Even though his suit was still pressed and straight, something about the man’s air had drastically changed. His face seemed gaunt and his shoulders were stooped. Still, as he saw Sherlock, he stiffened.

Lestrade looked between Sherlock and the earl. “I’ll just be right outside.”

Denton nodded and walked over to claim the empty chair. “Of course, you’ve been expecting me, Mr. Holmes.”

“Actually, I was expecting you several hours ago.”

The earl took in Sherlock’s appearance. “I see my tardiness has resulted in some unpleasantness for you. My apologies.”

“No,” Sherlock said with a general wave over himself, “this was simply the swiftest way of ridding myself of a certain annoying person.”

A ghost of a smile drifted over the earl’s face. “I see. Your methods are as unorthodox as I have been told, then.” But just as quickly as the smile appeared, it vanished. “Alas, it is still not in my power to answer your questions, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock’s brows lifted in curiosity. “Because of Andre? You don’t think I could find him?”

“I have no doubt you could find my son. The doubt lies in whether he would still be breathing by the time you were able to do so. In fact, I can say with 96 percent accuracy that he wouldn’t be.” He exhaled heavily, the stoop in his shoulders becoming more pronounced. “I have long been of the mind that my greatest strength was my intelligence. To see what I can see, to do what I can do … it’s a gift. The influx of data and knowledge is a most toothsome pleasure for me. The thrill of solving that which is unsolvable, of finding the flaw in the otherwise perfect plan, of making predictions with a startling degree of accuracy … it has imbued me an omnipotent level of confidence. I have become reliant on this confidence. Too reliant. I can see this now. Can you imagine, Mr. Holmes? Never being wrong … about anything?”

Sherlock could not. He swallowed the unexplained tightness that had appeared in the back of his throat and waited for Denton to continue.

“I was a god in my own mind and in the minds of all those who came into contact with me. This wasn’t arrogance. It was fact. I dedicated my talents to a greater purpose, never falling victim to all those primitive iniquities which have historically brought about the downfall of man: Avarice, ignorance, lust, envy, animosity. I even took a wife who was so far beneath my realm of intelligence that many often wondered why I bothered. But I knew we would suit in the ways that mattered. I knew she would understand the importance of my work—even if she couldn’t grasp what it took for me to do it. I knew she would understand its priority in my life and that she would be the perfect helpmate for me in all ways that would be important. Moreover, she demonstrates the patience of a saint and makes me laugh in a way that none can.

“Of course, the decency and benevolence our children daily demonstrate in their lives are solely a byproduct of her actions and influence. She is the parent. I am merely the … other … to them. But I never let this bother me. I did what I could for them, loved them as much as I was able, content in the confidence that they would one day understand the importance of my work and my vast obligations and contributions to the greater good. I could make the world a better place in which for them to live. That was the most dignified way to prove my affection.”

Denton looked down at his hand, fisted on the table. “But now … “ He uttered an almost inhuman moan of shame. “What is done is done. I know this. I am not a god. I am a man, flawed, supercilious, and full of regret.”

“Regret won’t save your son.”

The earl’s eyes darted up to meet Sherlock’s. “No, my silence on certain matters will do that.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because you’re an idiot.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened at this. Besides Mycroft, no one had ever called him that. Before he could fathom a reply, the earl sent him a dismissive wave. “No, please don’t be offended. Compared to me, everyone is an idiot. But you are decidedly less of an idiot than everyone else. More than that, you have an intrepid spirit and a reckless need to put your unique acumen and skills to use saving the world. You may have had dreams of being a pirate and you may call yourself a consulting detective, Mr. Holmes, but, in reality, you are a modern-day knight racing about London in a flappy, black coat.”

Sherlock was more surprised than before. Honestly, he thought he might have preferred being called an idiot. “I’m no hero.”

“You are.” Denton’s hands joined on the table, fingers lacing together. “And it is that which I am counting on more than anything else. I cannot tell you about my dealings with our mutual acquaintance, but I can tell you that the game currently afoot is much larger than you imagine. It is vital that you understand your role if you are come out on top.”

Frustration reigned with Sherlock. “Why not just tell me about the professor’s plan? How would he know?”

“Because while I may not be as omnipotent as I once believed, _he_ is.”

Sherlock let this information sink in before he comprehended what it meant. _Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!_ “So it was the professor who knew I would come to you, who knew I would take the necklace to get to you, and who arranged for you and I to meet in order to have me arrested? Why? To get me out of the way for whatever he has planned? Does he truly believe I would meekly stay here if that were the case?” The realizations just kept coming, like rain falling from the sky. “And he knows you’re here now? Why would you come if you knew it would endanger your son in—” He stopped as a truly damning realization shoved its way forward. “He _sent_ you here.”

Denton nodded. Sherlock finally understood the man’s stooping shoulders. _A yoke._

Sherlock hissed as everything became clear. “And what is his message?”

Denton replied, his voice almost robotic. “Stop now or I will burn the heart out of you.”

The sound of male laughter reverberated through the room. It took Sherlock a moment to realize he himself was making the noise. He wanted to stop, but he couldn’t. He laughed and laughed and laughed some more. He laughed so hard that his ribs started to ache and tears rolled down his cheeks. Finally, when he was able to get a hold on himself once more, he looked at the earl and said, his voice suddenly devoid of all mirth, “A Moriarty already tried that. He’s dead now. Give me time. The professor can join him.”

“He thought you might say that. Stubborn, he calls you.”

“Why not just deliver your message at the ball? Why go to all the trouble of having me arrested?”

“I’m sure you’ll discover the answer to that shortly. I have one last thing to tell you.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, dryly. “And what is that?”

“Check your phone.”

After saying this, Denton looked at his watch and calmly got to his feet as if they’d just completed a business transaction. Sherlock thought he would just leave, but the earl had one last surprise to deliver. He held out a hand. “It truly was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes. Too bad we never got to play chess. I imagine you would be quite the opponent.”

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously, but still took his hand. Once this was completed, Denton gave a nod and left the room. Several minutes later, Lestrade returned, looking stunned.

“You’re free to go, Sherlock,” he said. “I don’t know how you convinced him, but the earl said it’s all a misunderstanding and he won’t be pressing charges.”

Sherlock’s mind raced with all he’d learned in his meeting with Denton.

“Did you hear me?” Lestrade said. “You’re free. The earl’s assistant is in the front office working to get your paperwork in order so you can be released within the hour. You want to tell me what all of that was about?”

“I need to use the loo.”

Lestrade frowned. “What?”

“The loo. I need to use it. What is difficult to understand about that? I assume since I’m not a free man as of yet you’ll need to escort me?”

Lestrade still seemed confused, but nodded just the same. Once inside the loo, Sherlock made quick work of checking the space for cameras. When he found none, he locked himself into one of the stalls and retrieved the small piece of paper Denton had discreetly palmed into his hand during their handshake. The following words were etched in a tiny, flowing script.

 

_If this is a game, are you a player or a piece?_

                  
Flipping the paper over revealed nothing on the back. Emitting a groan of frustration, he balled it and dropped it into the toilet, flushing away the evidence. _A puzzle. I hate puzzles._ The earl had gone to all the trouble and danger of delivering his own message, but as Sherlock had no context, he had no way of deciphering what it meant.

He left the loo shortly thereafter. As promised, his release was quickly arranged and all that was left was to gather his belongings. John was there to meet him, looking windblown and decidedly put out.

“What is going on? You stole a necklace from Earl Denton?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock said, walking over to the window where he could reclaim his property. “Haven’t you heard? It was all a misunderstanding.”

John followed. “Lestrade said the necklace was found in the pocket of your coat, and I know you were staking out the earl’s estate in Cornwall because I was there helping you. Did you make me an accessory to a jewel heist?” He paused as something seemed to occur to him. “Is that why you kept calling Mary every night? Did she help you?”

“Of course not,” Sherlock said glibly. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a consulting detective, not a cat burglar.”

A custody sergeant came from the back with a large brown envelope with his name on it and began laying out the various items contained therein. John eased in close to Sherlock, his voice barely above a harsh whisper. “Don’t lie to me. You’ll be anything you need to be when it comes to a case.”

Sherlock grunted as he reclaimed his phone, turned it on, and waited for it to boot up.

John, who had used this time to lodge a series of threats on his former flatmate’s person, stopped and asked, “Sherlock, are you listening to a word I am saying?”

“No,” Sherlock said, scroll through the text messages he received. It was when he got to the last one from an unknown number that he stopped.

 

_Rook takes Queen._

_Check._

        

And with those four, little words, his brief imprisonment suddenly made sense. His heart stuttered in his chest as he turned to John. “Where’s Molly?”


	43. Way Down We Go

“Where’s Molly?”

John replied to Sherlock’s question, but Sherlock didn’t really need to hear the answer. He already knew.  He didn’t need to ring her mobile, question Lestrade, text his brother, or even rush off to Baker Street, praying she was there and all of this was some kind of cruel joke.

Professor Moriarty had her. Doubtless, she was the reason Moriarty had him meet Denton at the ball in the first place.

 _How did he know I’d bring her?_ _I didn’t know myself until the day before, and I told no one save …_ He looked down at his phone, shooting off a text message. But even as he sent it, he knew he’d get no reply.

_No loose ends._

Tonight’s events had been so carefully orchestrated, every eventuality accounted for. The precision of the plan and the seamlessness of how it unfolded were a stunning splendor too beautiful to fully comprehend. He couldn’t help but admire it and feel a flash of envy at the professor’s expertise.

Denton’s words filtered through his consciousness.

 _Because while I may not be as omnipotent as I once believed,_ he _is._

A jolt of excitement shot through him. _This will be the game to end all games._

“Sherlock?” John’s voice intruded. “What do you mean, where’s Molly? What’s happened?”

Sherlock looked up, realizing minutes had passed since he’d read the professor’s gloating text.  John was standing in front of him, demanding answers he didn’t have. Sherlock ignored this, instead zeroing in on Lestrade. The veteran policeman approached them both carrying the Belstaff, a cocky grin on his face. The grin fell away as he noticed Sherlock’s expression. This action forced Sherlock take stock of himself. He was surprised at the intense rage he felt bubbling just beneath the surface of his skin. He could easily have pounded the detective inspector into the ground, relishing the feel of flesh and bone being pulverized beneath his fist. But he didn’t. Emotion must be suppressed now. Hard logic and extreme calm were needed to get Molly back.

_I’ll get her back. She’s the professor’s way to me. I will get her back. He has no reason to hurt her._

But he’d no more decided this when another, more dangerous thought intruded. _Loose ends._

He closed his eyes briefly, shoving everything as far down inside of him as it would go, further down than he’d ever gone before. A blessed numbness flooded him. When he opened his eyes again, Lestrade was in front of him.

He handed him the coat. “Thought you might want this, Sherlock. You mind explaining what happened back there with the earl?”

“Sure,” Sherlock said, taking the coat and sliding it on, “after you to explain how it is that you can’t follow simple instructions.”

“What are you talking about?”

John butted in. “Molly’s missing.”

“Missing?”

“Kidnapped,” Sherlock corrected.

This only confused Lestrade more. “Kidnapped? Molly? How is that possible?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes until Lestrade was practically squirming before him. “As you were charged with escorting her home, why don’t you tell me?”

“I was trying to help _you_ , you daft prick! If you don’t remember, you’d just been arrested for stealing a thirty million pound necklace.  I had one of my men take Molly home so I could stay behind to get you out of this mess as best I could. She’s perfectly safe. You lot are overreacting.”

“When have you _ever_ known me to overreact?” Sherlock asked. Then, not interested in hearing the answer to that, he continued. “Where is this man of yours now?”

“I don’t know. Peter Fosshor. Good bloke, excellent recommendations.”

“Spell the last name.”

Lestrade quickly complied.  “I only met him last week. New to the unit. He went out to the castle with us and—”

But it was already enough information for Sherlock to know it was a dead end. He grunted and turned on heel, intent on getting away. Emotion welled within him again, threatening everything. He couldn’t control himself in Lestrade’s presence a moment longer. This lack of restraint scared him because he knew its source. The failure for this event was multi-faceted, but he still knew where the bulk of the blame lay. He made it to the stairs going outside when he dialed his brother and put the phone to his ear.

_Voicemail._

“Molly is missing. He has her, Mycroft.” He paused, swallowing hard after admitting that. “Ring me,” he said before disconnecting.

Lestrade came running up, apparently having been caught up on what was going on by John. “We can track Molly’s phone.”

“Go ahead.” He didn’t bother to cover his mocking tone. “I’m sure you’ll find it along some anonymous stretch of road. That should prove _exceedingly_ useful.”

“But her purse,” John, who had come with Lestrade, threw in. “You had that transmitter put in it to—”

“She didn’t bring it with her.”

“Why not?”

Sherlock gritted his teeth as he answered. “Because she was with _me_.”

Lestrade jumped in next. “Cameras!”

“What?”

“The ball tonight. The castle? There’s bound to be security cameras, we can—”

“How would that prove at all helpful? We know who took her. _Your_ man Peter. Besides, do you honestly believe a man who is as thorough in his undertakings as the professor would forget an important detail like that?”

John took another turn. “But what about Mycroft’s men? Weren’t they watching her?”

“If they were doing their job, do you think Moriarty would have her? _Think_ , John!”

“But these are Mycroft’s men. How could the professor have gotten around them? Doesn’t the government have a pretty tight security check and lots of training before—”

Sherlock’s fury knew no bounds. “Mycroft was sacked, remember? No doubt the security team—which he paid for out of his own pocket—was either bought off or eliminated by Moriarty. Balance of probability is they’re dead. No loose ends that way. In fact, you’ll probably find their bodies around the time you find _Peter’s_.”

“Peter?” Lestrade echoed. “You think he’s one of this professor’s men? I have all of his paperwork. He was—”

“Using a fake identity, whoever he truly was.” Sherlock sneered. “How could you not see that? ‘Peter Fosshor’ is an anagram for The Professor.”

It was Lestrade’s turn to lose his temper. He threw his hands up in frustration. “Well, how the hell was I supposed to know? It’s not like I even knew this professor existed before five minutes ago or that there was any renewed threat to Molly until right now! I asked you more than a week ago. You said Moriarty was dead.”

“Jim Moriarty _is_ dead. His brother the professor, however,” Sherlock yelled back, “is very much alive.”

 But Lestrade wasn’t finished. “I still don’t understand what all this has to do with the earl and that necklace.”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“Doesn’t matter?” Lestrade sputtered. “ _Doesn’t matter_? Of course it matters! If you had simply clued people into what you were working on, we could have helped you. But, no, you’ve got to be the big, bad flashy detective always showing off and now Molly’s going to pay for your ego!” He got right in Sherlock’s face. “What if he kills her? Have you thought about that, you big sod? If he’s one to take care of loose ends, what do you think she’ll eventually be?”

A long silence followed in the wake of this. Even the ambient noise of people working in the offices and at desks around them fell quiet as everyone looked their way.

“Yes, well,” Sherlock finally said, not sure who he hated more in this instant, the detective inspector or himself. He popped his collar, wrapping the edges of his coat around himself. “Follow up on your leads, Lestrade. Track Molly’s phone, look for your Peter, go through the castle’s security footage. Who knows? Maybe you’ll get lucky. Let me know if you find anything.”

This only seemed to infuriate Lestrade further. “Oh, and what are you going to do in the meantime?”

“I’m going back to Baker Street. The professor will be in contact. I might as well be comfortable while I wait.”

And, leaving two grown men staring after him with twin expressions shock and consternation, Sherlock Holmes walked out of New Scotland Yard.

 

**—RE—**

 

Molly came to in a room without windows. She blinked, trying to gather her wits about her. It was difficult, as if her thoughts were drowning in honey. Her heart, meanwhile, was racing frantically in her chest. She used one hand to shove herself into a sitting position so she could take stock of where she was.

The bare, concrete walls were slathered a depressing gray. The sloped floor was tiled with a round grate located in the very center. For some reason, that detail sent a shiver of fear coursing down her spine. The room smelled heavily of bleach, which only made the fear worse.

Florescent lights shown overhead, casting a sickly pall over everything. Furnishings in the room were sparse. Besides the narrow, metal bed with its lone wool blanket and flat pillow, there was only a serviceable chair and a white, plastic pail.  She didn’t want to think about what that pail was for. She only hoped it was currently empty. The chill in the air had her pulling the blanket up over her shoulders. She noticed her hands shaking as she did so.

 _Tremors?_ Molly rose to her feet, closing her eyes against a wave of nausea that hit her from nowhere. She fell back against the bunk, trying not to vomit. She resumed her position on her back, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth. When the spell of sickness had dispersed, she once again clambered to her feet.

Her shoes were missing. She blinked, trying to be sure. Yes, they were missing. She wondered if they’d been lost as she’d been carried here. The floor was icy against her feet, but she ignored this as she moved forward. Nearing the door, a heavy, steel affair with a slot at the bottom and a thin, vertical window at the top, she stood on her tiptoes to peek out. But all she could see was darkness beyond and the bare hint of her reflection in the glass. There was no way to open the door from this side. She pressed her still-trembling hand against the flat, unforgiving surface, trying vainly to resist a torrential flood of dread.

The last thing she remembered was Lestrade telling her he needed to get her home, all the while assuring her that Sherlock would be fine. Somehow, she hadn’t been able to believe that to be true. Still, as she had known she would only prove to be a distraction if she stayed, she’d gone along with the young, gangly policeman who’d volunteered for the duty. He’d seemed nice—if not a little too exuberant about the job.

He put her in his patrol car—in the front. He was very talkative, telling her his name was Peter, asking her if she’d had a pleasant evening, and even offering her a cold beverage. She’d turned him down, desperately wanting him to just be quiet. She looked away from him to stare out the window, hoping he would take the hint. The next thing she remembered was a sudden pain in her shoulder and the need to fight and struggling and then … waking up here.

She pushed back the sleeve of her gown. A small, red needle mark verified what she already suspected. _Drugged. I was drugged. With what?_ _Ketamine?_ She blinked again, willing away the trance-like fuzziness that still outlined her vision. _Possibly._ That would certainly explain the tremors. She still felt slightly loopy. _It was mixed with something._ That would explain the nausea.

An idea occurred to her, bringing with it a flash of hope. She pressed vainly against the bodice of her gown, letting out a sigh of regret when she realized they’d found where she’d stashed her mobile.

 _How long have I been here? How long was I out?_ _Ketamine is short acting. It couldn’t have been too long if that’s what I was dosed with. No more than an hour, then. Maybe two?_ Honestly, she wasn’t sure. Whatever they’d mixed the ketamine with could affect things.

_Does Sherlock know I’m gone yet? Of course he must know. But what if he doesn’t? What if he took off on some lead the earl gave him? He’d have no way of knowing I was missing. Greg is sure to tell him he sent me home with Peter. No one will suspect—_

“No, stop it,” she told herself.

Her voice echoed across the deadly still room. The loudest noise was the sound of her breathing, which was coming out in rattled, little spurts. She leaned back against the wall, trying to calm herself. It would do no good to panic. She couldn’t think if she panicked.

_What would Sherlock do?_

_What difference does that make? You aren’t Sherlock, are you?_

_Breathe and stay calm. That is what Sherlock would do._

She rested against the wall with her eyes shut, concentrating on her breathing. When it regulated, she took stock.

Her body was sore, but only in the shoulder and her neck, which she assumed had to do with the needle and how she’d been positioned on the bed to sleep.  Other than the remaining effects of the drug, which seemed to be wearing off, she was intact.

 _How long have I been down here?_ She didn’t feel as if she’d slept that long, but there was no way to know for sure. Then, she realized she’d already tried to calculate the length of time. _Confusion. Yes, definitely ketamine then_.

The cold seeped in at her from all sides. She gathered her knees against her chest, tucking the edges of her skirts around her to try to keep in the warmth. Likewise, she tightened the blanket about her head and neck.

_Sherlock will find you. There is no one smarter than he is. He probably is already on the way. Just hang tight. He’ll get here. You just have to stay alive._

Molly wasn’t sure how long she sat there, telling herself this over and over again. She only knew she was interrupted by the shriek of metal turning against metal. She looked to the door as it opened. A great hulk of a man, bald and dressed in black jeans and an equally black pullover, came into the room. There was a wicked-looking scar dominating half of his face as if someone had taken a knife to it. He also had a swollen nose which looked as if it had been squashed against his face by a mallet. She wondered idly if he had problems with snoring. _Probably._ She blinked. _Drugs still have not worn off._

The man leaned against the door, propping it open and waited.

Molly watched and waited with him. But the man simply remained as he was, saying nothing to her. He barely even looked her way.

Finally, another man entered the room. This one older and decidedly more stately. He was tall and stocky and clad in a white dress shirt, a bow tie, gray, twill Chinos, and a matching jacket. Tortoiseshell glasses framed his neatly bearded face, and his short, dark brown hair was grayed at the temples and feathered against his head.

He looked nothing like Jim—save the dark hair—but Molly knew who he was just the same. In fact, she could say for the first time in her life that this man looked exactly as she had secretly envisioned him to be, exactly as a professor should be. She could easily imagine him as a faculty member, fresh from class at Cambridge or Oxford.

The man walked over to the chair, lifting it and bringing it closer to Molly. Once he was no more than two feet from the bed, he set it down. Seating himself, he smiled politely at her, resting his hands in his lap. “Hello, Molly. Such a delight to finally see you in person. How are we this evening? I hope you’ve suffered no ill effects from the little jab we administered?”

Intent on keeping her fear hidden, Molly squared her shoulders and looked him straight on. “Professor Moriarty, I presume?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still haven’t watched Season 4; so please don’t spoil me in the reviews and comments. It’s driving me crazy not to know what happened, but, in the end, it will make me write faster and, overall, provide you with a better story.


	44. Frozen

“Professor Moriarty, I presume?”

The professor’s smile widened, but it didn’t reach his dull, brown eyes. “I see that in addition to dressing up his pet and allowing her to tag along on his outings, Mr. Holmes also permits her to be informed of the names of his adversaries. How _innovative_ of him.” Suddenly, the smile vanished. “You will address me as Dr. Moriarty. After all the years of education and research I completed to receive my PhD, I’m sure you can agree I’ve more than earned the distinction of the title. _Professor_ is what I do. Dr. Moriarty is who I _am_.”

 _And a pet is what I am?_ _Is that it?_ A spurt of anger in the wake of her verbal chastisement dashed through her. Common sense told Molly it wasn’t in her best interest to rile her captor, but the lingering effects of the ketamine in her system made it relatively easy to ignore that.

“In that case,” she coolly replied, “you will call me Dr. Hooper. As I have satisfied the required instructive and clinical practicums to receive a _medical_ degree in addition to completing a further period of postgraduate study, research, residencies, fellowships, and examinations, I’m sure you can agree I, too, have more than earned the distinction. In fact, if you need my full title, I am Molly Hooper, MBBS, MRCP, FRCPath. I am a histopathologist and, currently, specialist registrar at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital. _Pathology_ is what I do. Dr. Hooper is who I _am_.”

There was a pause, a pause so loud and long that she was sure she’d made a large error. Finally, the doctor across from her reacted.

 _“Touché_ ,” Moriarty said, head cocked to the side as if he were studying a specimen. “And since we’re making introductions …” He idly motioned behind him to the man still standing at the door. “This is Bruce. Bruce, meet Molly.”

Bruce made no comment. He simply retained his position, giving her barely a glance before returning to staring off into the distance.

“Now that we’re all acquainted,” Moriarty continued, crossing one leg over the other, “let’s move on to the next portion of this interview. I have a few questions regarding your master.”

“Sherlock isn’t my master.”

Moriarty gave a biting laugh. “He is, dear girl. He is. You’ve been doing his bidding for years. He demands,” he said, his gaze running over her in a methodical, assessing way, “and you come running. What is it he calls you? _His_ pathologist? What did you imagine that meant?” He paused, letting that sink in. “Even the elder Mr. Holmes knows the truth. He calls you the goldfish.”

Molly dropped her gaze, unable to look at him anymore. Unwillingly, her mind raced. _Goldfish._ _Mycroft’s text to Sherlock that time._ The term now made sense, but Molly shoved all of the resulting insecurity away. _That’s not how Sherlock sees me. It’s only a tool Moriarty is using to get what he wants, me questioning my relationship and loyalties to my supposed master._ She shivered, gripping the blanket tighter to give herself courage. “Play all the mind games you want, professor. I won’t tell you anything.”

“No?” His voice belied his excitement at this turn of events. “Fascinating. Typically, someone in your position would insist they know nothing. But here you are declaring you won’t tell me _anything_. A striking difference in meaning. The first indicates a lack of knowledge. The second, an unwillingness to share knowledge. Mr. Holmes’ training style is unusual, but I must admit the results so far are quite impressive. No wonder he allowed you to assist him with faking his death.”

That had her glancing up.

“Of course,” he continued, tapping an index finger against his chin as if he were contemplating something of great import, “you and I are merely having a civil conversation. It’s quite easy to maintain a resistant mind in such settings.” He clasped his hands in his lap, cheerily regarding her in a way eerily reminiscent of Jim on their first date. “I wonder how you’ll cope under less _pleasant_ circumstances. I do _so_ look forward to finding out.”

It took everything Molly had not to react in the face of this not-so-subtle threat. She felt chilled, but it was no longer from the temperature of the room. _I’m in so much trouble. Sherlock, where are you?_

She thought she’d been prepared for the worst—for this—but she was wrong. She had survived many terrible things in her life. The deaths of family, the struggle and aching loneliness that comes with truly being on one’s own in the world, repeated disappointments and heartbreak in love, and her many years navigating the likes of Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes. But nothing could have adequately prepared her for this. _For him._

 _Moriarty’s not in a hurry, not concerned in the least about Sherlock discovering my whereabouts. He’s toying with me like a cat with a mouse._ Something about acknowledging that fact only made her feel worse. _How will Sherlock find me? He’s good, but only because he knows how to follow the most overlooked of breadcrumbs. But what if there are no breadcrumbs? What if Moriarty has already done away with them?_ Molly didn’t have Sherlock’s gift for deduction, but she was too pragmatic not to know what this all meant.

_I’m going to die. That’s Moriarty’s plan. Like a piece on a chessboard, I’ll be sacrificed to make a play._

She’d never been afraid of death. What was the point? It happened to everyone. She and death were old lovers. No, what worried her was all that she would have to endure, what weaknesses she might exhibit or information she might unwillingly offer up before Moriarty executed her—all of which would be used to shove Sherlock further into danger.

_Distract him. Get him killed._

_No._ Molly suddenly straightened up, letting the blanket fall around her. _Not if I have anything to say about it._ She cocked her chin up, once more staring her captor full in the face. This was a man who believed in a hierarchy of masters and pets. Looking at him as if she believed herself to his equal wouldn’t do much, but it might poke a hole in the carefully crafted façade of insufferable, affected supremacy he’d created for himself. She’d been around enough geniuses to recognize that attribute when she saw it.

“Dr. Moriarty, a man as intelligent as your reputation alleges you to be wouldn’t need any information I’d be likely to provide. You already know everything about Sherlock and anyone connected to him. You’ve known it for years,” she said.

“Perhaps,” he allowed. “But I’ve always been of a mind that there is no such thing as too much information. There is also something to be said for the intimate nature of a first-hand account, and I bet you have so _many_ of those to tell.”

Molly swallowed hard and tried again. “Be that as it may, I think we can both dispense with the pageantries here. Your purpose in taking me is to get Sherlock’s attention, to taunt him, to force him to play whatever game you’ve concocted to test yourself.”

This seemed to intrigue him. “Test myself?” he asked.

“You evil geniuses always feel the need to test yourselves by challenging him. It’s actually becoming a bit cliché at this point. Well, allow me to tell you that you needn’t have bothered. If it’s a game, Sherlock always plays … and he always wins.” She smiled, sedately. “ _Always.”_

There was another pause. Then, Moriarty chuckled, mockingly clapping his hands together once, twice, and a third time. “Nice try, Molly, but as carefully as you designed your statement in order to provoke me into giving away something important, I’m afraid neither of us are getting the information we hoped to collect tonight.” He got to his feet, straightening his jacket. “I have another engagement; so you must excuse me. Bruce will see to your needs; so please do scream if you should require anything. I’m not sure when my schedule will permit a return; so I do hope you will find your accommodations comfortable in the meantime.”

As there was no need for a response, she just watched him leave. Like the good dog he was, Bruce quickly followed. Molly tried not to flinch at the unholy screech of the door being locked again. There was the click-clack of fading footsteps before the oppressive silence returned to the dank, tomblike room. With it came the full, emotional weight of her situation, hitting her like a brick to the solar plexus. She turned away, unable to look at the door anymore, and lay down on the bed. She gathered the blanket around her as she curled into herself and stared at the gray wall in front of her. But she no longer saw the wall, only the hopelessness of what was to come. Then, there was only one thing left to do.

Molly sobbed.

 

**—RE—**

_Sixteen hours._ Sixteen hours since he’d received that bloody text and not another word. _What is the professor playing at? My move, obviously, but what am I expected to do?_ Sherlock had racked his brain with everything he’d learned from the earl—which was admittedly not much—as well as everything he knew about the professor and Jim. He had carefully plotted everything on a timeline and added all new information to his wall of evidence above the sofa.

Then, he stood there and stared at it. Hours passed in this stagnant manner. But, no matter how long he looked or how diligent he was in his study, there was nothing new to be gleaned, no clue which could lead him to Molly’s whereabouts or even how to contact the professor.

_There must be one. I’m missing it. I always miss something. But I can’t miss this. I can’t._

But as much as he couldn’t deduce Moriarty’s ultimate plan or how to rescue Molly, Sherlock was flooded with deductions about everything. The most mundane of details fairly raped his mind. The lack of dust in the flat, the hoover marks left in the carpet, and the scent of chemicals drifting into the flat from downstairs told him Mrs. Hudson was on one of her cleaning binges. No doubt, she’d finally broke it off with Mr. Drury down the lane who’d been cheating on her with Mrs. Turner.

The cadence of grumbles and taps coming from John told Sherlock he’d located nothing of importance while sifting through his blog and the emails. The bit of sauce dribbled on the front of John’s pullover indicated he’d recently eaten. One sniff of the air told Sherlock it was a bacon buddy. The carton sitting on the coffee table told him John had brought him one back as well. The rattle lying on the coffee table told him Mary had been by with the baby fairly recently, but he couldn’t recall the visit.

Sherlock tried to ignore it all, but it wouldn’t stop. Useless information flooded his brain whether he wanted it or not. Then there were the memories of Molly in this flat, in this room, but he’d successfully blocked that portion of his brain. The frustration had reached unbearable levels, clawing at his insides until he wanted to scream in agony. But he didn’t. Sherlock froze out his emotions, forcing himself to remain calm and rational. But it was a battle he wasn’t sure he was capable of winning.

He’d tried texting the professor back, but the only thing he received in return was an error message which indicated the number was no longer viable. _So you can contact me, but I’m not allowed to talk back._ Likewise, his repeated calls and texts to Mycroft had gone unanswered. He didn’t know what his brother was up to. Honestly, he didn’t care. But Mycroft’s silence bothered him as it demonstrated an unwillingness to assist him in getting Molly back, which seemed like a message all on its own.

_Sentiment, brother dear. See what it gets you? Time to learn that lesson once and for all._

It made sense. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time Mycroft had abandoned familial duty for his own ends. Sherlock mentally shoved this away. _No, I will find her. I don’t need anyone else. I can do it myself. The professor won’t hurt her. I know he won’t. She’s too valuable. The answer is here. I just need to find it._ But this determination brought with it another thought. Something the earl had said to him.

_I have no doubt you could find my son. The doubt lies in whether he would still be breathing by the time you were able to do so. In fact, I can say with 96 percent accuracy that he wouldn’t be._

_What’s the percent of accuracy of my being able to find Molly still alive?_

“They found the body.”

Jerked from his reverie, he darted a look at John, who was now sitting in his chair by the fireplace. Sherlock couldn’t stop his heart from freezing in chest as he said, “Body? Whose body?”

“Peter Fosshor.” John looked up from his phone to see Sherlock’s expression, seemingly confused. “You all right?”

Sherlock waved this off and returned his attention to the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

“According to Lestrade, this Peter was shot in the head. Point-blank range. Been dead more than twelve hours,” John read from his phone. “The lab technician is sure the body was moved from the site of the murder. Do you want to see it? It might help us to get some leads on how to find Molly.”

“You go. Let me know if you find anything else.”

“Me? You mean go alone?”

Sherlock backed up and collapsed in his chair, trying to ignore the headache forming behind his eyes. “Yes alone. Why? Did you want to take Mrs. Hudson with you?”

“Mrs. Hudson?”

Sherlock exhaled heavily. “John, if you’re going to repeat everything I say, this tedious conversation is only going to grow more tedious. Go find Lestrade, and look at the body. Text me if you find anything interesting.”

“And what will you be doing in the meantime?”

 “Waiting to hear from the professor, of course.”

“Waiting to hear from the professor?” John repeated. “What’s wrong with you? You’ve done nothing more than mess with your phone and add more and more items to the wall that makes no sense to me. Worse, you keep sending me out on errands like I’m your assistant and treating Greg like he’s Wiggins. Where is Wiggins, by the way? Since when do you wait for anyone? And, while we're on the subject, since when do you not want to see the body of a murder victim?”

Sherlock leveled a look at his best friend which was filled with disdain. “When I know there is no data to be collected. You don’t know the professor like I do. He wouldn’t be so careless.”

“How do you know? Aren’t you the one who says that sooner or later a killer always makes a mistake? No one is immune to that? And, even if the professor is immune, you’re still assuming a lot. Seems to me that a man like the professor who has been so intent all this time of having others do his bidding while he remains concealed in the shadows wouldn’t be the one to actually wield the gun himself. That means he delegated it to someone else, someone perhaps not as infallible as you seem to believe the professor to be.”

Sherlock hated what a good point John had made. Worse, he hated how muddled his thought processes had become that he hadn’t figured that out by himself. _What is happening to me? Was Mycroft right the whole time? Am I irretrievably damaged? Will Molly pay for my weakness?_ _No, he won’t hurt her. He won’t. He needs her. She’s valuable._ He got to his feet, closing his eyes against the head rush this gave him. Sherlock swayed, feeling his knees weakening.

John caught him, holding him up by the shoulders. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does. You nearly fainted. Now, tell me when.”

Sherlock racked his brain, trying to remember, but he couldn’t. Time had become divided into two distinct periods: Before Molly’s kidnapping and after. Sleeping was decidedly pre-kidnapping.

John stared closely at Sherlock’s face, as if he could discern the information that way.  “Was it that small nap you took when we were staking out the earl’s estate in Cornwall?”

Relieved not to have to think about it anymore, Sherlock nodded.

“You should rest. You can’t keep functioning without sleep.”

This caused Sherlock to lose what little was left of his patience. “Make up your mind! One minute, you tell me to rush off to look at a body and the next you’re telling me to go to bed.” He jerked away from his former flatmate, stalking over to where he kept his coat. He pulled it on and headed for the door. “Let’s go.”

“Go where?”

Sherlock gritted his teeth. _If John doesn’t stop repeating things … He’s clearly trying to drive me bonkers._ “The morgue. I need to examine the body.” He added another bit as he made it down the stairs, but it wasn’t necessarily directed at his best friend. “Anything is better than remaining here a moment longer.”

**—RE—**

 

 _Eighteen hours._ Eighteen hours since he’d received that bloody text and he’d advanced not one step closer to ascertaining Molly’s whereabouts. _Is she still alive?_

_She is. He needs her. He can’t kill her yet._

_Yet._ The agony in his chest was immediate. He shoved it away. It wasn’t helping. None of this was helping. He wanted to leave it all, go somewhere quiet, and take the biggest hit of his life. Anything to be able to divorce himself from what was happening right now.

_Not helping. Get a hold on yourself, man. She’s going to die if you don’t save her._

He straightened and took a deep breath. Pulling out his phone, he called Mycroft again. It went straight to voicemail. Sherlock disconnected. After all, the message was clear.

_You’ve made your bed, brother dear. Now lie in it._

“Sherlock?”

He looked up to see John standing across from him. “Why are you still here?”

John’s surprise was immediate. “Where would I go?”

“I don’t know. Work? Home to Mary and Abby? The shops?” Sherlock threw his hands into the air. “All those places you go when you’re not with me?”

“Sherlock, Molly is my friend, and she’s been kidnapped by a crazed lunatic. How could you think I wouldn’t be involved in getting her back?”

Sherlock collapsed into his chair, more tired than he had ever been in his life. _No. That’s the professor’s game. He wants you in a vulnerable position. He needs you to be. All the more malleable that way. Sherlock knew how this would have to go._ The professor would contact him, lay out the rules to the game, and force Sherlock’s next move. It was a tale as old as time, one he was well versed in. The delay was merely the warm up.

_So the rumors I heard regarding his love of torture were true._

“I didn’t think a body could be that clean,” John said, seating himself in his chair across from Sherlock.

“Whatever evidence might have been left behind was likely defiled by the very law enforcement officials tasked with collecting it.”

John sighed. “You didn’t have to be so rude to the lab technician, you know. He was only doing his job.”

“He’s an incompetent fool.”

“Not everyone can be Molly.”

Sherlock flinched, but said nothing. Instead, he got to his feet and went to stare at his wall of information again.

“So what do we do now?”

Sherlock ignored this and stood on the sofa, putting himself as close to the information as possible. He ran a finger over his timeline, trying to approximate if there was a pattern to Moriarty’s steps thus far.

“Sherlock? Sherlock?”

He groaned. _When is he leaving? Doesn’t he understand that he’s slowing me down?_ He didn’t bother to turn around. “What?”

“What are our next steps?”

“Waiting for the professor.”

“What do we know so far?”

Sherlock didn’t bother to answer than one. He took the black marker from his pocket and drew a line through one of the theories he’d posted. _If he was going to do that, he would have already made contact._ But just as he marked through that one, he had to add three more possibilities. _One step forward, two steps back._

“Sherlock?”

_Because if you uncover the reason Jim targeted you then, you'll have a better understanding of why his older brother is targeting you now._

Molly’s voice in his head was like a punch to his midsection. Sherlock staggered back off the sofa, swaying a bit as he landed and needing to close his eyes for a bit to regain his equilibrium. John was back in front of him as he opened his eyes again. He shoved past him and went over to the skull, where he’d secreted the packet of nicotine patches Molly had given him and slapped three in a row on his arm. The rush of from the chemicals helped immensely.

_Just promise me you won't use more than two at once. Now is not the time for you to develop nicotine poisoning._

Molly again. Sherlock groaned, holding his head in his hands. _No._ He forced her out. _Not now._ He opened his eyes again, jerking off one of patches and throwing it to the unlit fireplace.

“Sherlock?”

“Go home, John.”

“What?”

Sherlock repeated himself, louder this time.

“Molly is missing. I’m your partner. This is what we do. Why would I go home?”

Sherlock turned on his friend, raging. “Molly has been kidnapped. Not missing. _Kidnapped_. And you are not my partner. You are the man who left me so he could get married and father children. This isn’t what you do. Not anymore. You are a GP, and you should go home because I don’t need you. You should go home because I’m better off alone.”

This burst of fury sapped the last of Sherlock’s strength, and he fell into his chair, panting. Then, he said the thing he'd been wanting to say for the last eighteen hours. “You should go home, John, because this is all your fault.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m an old fashioned writer. I believe the way you find out what happens in a story is by “turning the page,” not by getting a warning sign in previous chapters. (This is a story, not a bicycle with training wheels.) For example, I enjoyed “Harry Potter” a lot more not knowing who was going to die beforehand. I was devastated when I got to that point in the story, but I was still happier not knowing in advance (because this mirrors how life is). Still, this is fanfiction and there are certain social mores regarding this particular business that I don’t wish to completely ignore. As such, I will issue the following caution to you all and no more: Proceed to future chapters at your own risk and only after you have girded your emotional loins appropriately. 
> 
> Consider this your trigger warning.


	45. Not the Only One

John looked both confused and angry enough to hit him, but Sherlock wasn’t bothered. He relished a fight, anything to be able to vent the frustration, fury, and helplessness he was feeling. It was clouding his thought processes and limiting his acuity. He tried hiding, blocking, freezing, and ignoring it. Nothing had worked. Perhaps this would.  

“How exactly is this _my_ fault, Sherlock?”

Sherlock was only too thrilled to explain. “Were it not for you and your excessive advice, I never would’ve taken Molly with me to the ball.”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t even know you were going to the ball. I didn’t even know the ball existed until yesterday!”

Sherlock leaned forward in the chair, propping his elbows on his knees as he narrowed eyes at John. “Ever since we left the flat in search of Denton nearly a week ago, you have harped on me about Molly. No matter how many times I told you it was none of your concern. No matter how many times I assured you our relationship was in earnest. No matter how many times I pointed out that Molly and I were content as we were. You would not leave it alone. In fact, it was only when Mary threatened to tape your mouth closed that you fell silent on the subject—and that only lasted until she left us to go retrieve Abby from Molly. Then, you started up again.”

John straightened, hands propped on his hips. “You have—from the very first day of our acquaintance—insisted that romantic relationships are not your ‘area.’ In the years hence, every experience you have ever had in any kind of romantic relationship has been warped and is in some way wrapped up in whatever case you happen to be working on at the time.” He held up one finger. “Irene Adler.” He held up a second finger. “Janine. You have said—on many occasions—that loving someone is considered ‘human error.’” He looked at Sherlock in a blatantly superior fashion. “Molly is my friend, and, in case you missed it, she’s in love with you. Has been for years. Therefore, how could I not be worried? Do you think I want to see you hurt that poor girl irrevocably just because you decided to deal with your loneliness by playing house? Just because this latest case has thrown you two together? This isn’t a game, Sherlock. This is a real woman with real feelings. She deserves better than that.”

“She deserves better than _me_ , you mean.”

 “Yes.”

That was hot poker to the chest. Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, took a deep breath, and then, opening his eyes again, continued on. “I will tell you now as I told you then. Molly is not like The Woman or Janine. This isn’t about a case. I have been honest with her—more honest than I have ever been in my life. I have given Molly everything I have to give, more than I have ever given anyone. She knows what she is getting with me, and she accepts it. It’s enough for her.”

“And when the case is over, what then?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but had no ready one.

“See?” John said, throwing his hands up in the air. “You haven’t even thought past it, have you? Once the danger is over and boredom sets in, you’ll cast her aside and look for something else to tickle your fancy.” He turned his back on Sherlock, shaking his head.

“No! That’s not true.”

The vehemence of his tone seemed to trigger something in John.  He slowly turned to look at Sherlock once more. “Then what is the plan?”

“I don’t have one. All I can tell you is that my relationship with Molly is in no way tied to this case.”

John scoffed. “Except Professor Moriarty now has her.”

Sherlock’s stomach twisted. He made no reply, just reclined back in his chair.

John’s voice was low and defeated when he spoke again, but Sherlock still heard him. “Molly deserves better than this.”

Sherlock’s head popped up. “You think I’m unaware of that? That I don’t know it’s my fault the professor has her? That the knowledge hasn’t been eating at me these last—” He looked down at his watch. “Nineteen hours? Why must you keep reminding me? Torturing me? Her being taken is my fault. I know that. But it’s your fault as well, John Watson. You pushed me.”

“Pushed you? I simply told you that if you cared about her at all, you would demonstrate her importance to you. Pay attention to her and her interests, send her flowers, take her on a date—”

Sherlock jumped to his feet, pointing at John. “Ha! See? There. If you had kept your mouth shut, I would never have taken Molly with me. But no, you and Mycroft have to keep interfering in my life! Can’t leave well enough alone!”

John’s face wrinkled in confusion. He paused, seeming to let Sherlock’s words sink in. Then, taking a breath, he said, “Let me see if I understand this correctly. I told you to take Molly on a date, and you took that to mean you should take her on a case with you?”

Sherlock nodded, gratified that John was finally understanding the weight of the error he had committed. “From time to time, I have counted on you, John, to assist me in navigating those more _human_ areas to which I am not as adept. This was one of those times.” He shook his head. “I trusted you. I ignored my instinct in order to follow your advice, and Molly is paying the price for that mistake.”

“You moronic arse!”

John’s fist tore at him from nowhere. Sherlock ducked and sent one flying himself. His connected with John’s jaw, driving the shorter man back against the bookcase. _God, that felt good._ The release was instant, euphoric, addictive. Sherlock went in again, ready to deliver another punishing hit. John’s foot, however, caught him before that could happen. With a heavy kick to the midsection, he sent Sherlock stumbling back so hard he hit his chair and went toes over teapot across it, landing with a heavy _oof_ on the floor. He looked up just in time to see John diving after him. Sherlock rolled before John could touch him, getting his feet under him and scampering back. John quickly did the same before giving out a battle cry and attacking him again.

They traded blows, ducking and dancing about. Crashes and booms shook the room intermittently as furniture or walls were slammed into and sundry items were broken over stubbornly hard heads. All too soon, the pair ended up back on the floor. Sherlock, planted atop John and about to deliver what he felt would be a rewarding punch, stopped when an unmistakable noise reached him. Both men looked up to see Mary standing near the door, a smoking gun in her hand.

Sherlock looked behind him, noting the tell-tale bullet hole now in the bookshelf. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked, barely able to talk as he tried to catch his breath.

“I could ask you the same. Molly’s been kidnapped and here you two are fighting like schoolboys. I don’t know how you ever survived as flatmates,” Mary said, pointing the gun at Sherlock. “Mind getting off my husband?”

Sherlock immediately released John and got to his feet, unable to ignore the fact that Mrs. Watson held a gun on him all the while. Knowing their history, he wasn’t altogether sure she wouldn’t use it. John got up next, grunting like an old man as he did so. Sherlock smirked, pleased to know that particular sound of discomfort was because of him. He disregarded his own throbbing cheek, dizzy head, and sore back.

“Now, you two want to tell me why you’re wasting valuable investigation time brawling amongst yourselves?” Mary said.

“Why are _you_ here?” Sherlock asked instead of answering.

John rolled his eyes and once more threw his hands up in the air. “Here we go again.” He stalked over to his wife, taking the gun from her. “Apparently, Sherlock is the only one allowed to find Molly.” He looked down at the gun in his hand. “This is mine. How did you get into my gun safe?”

Mary answered Sherlock’s question instead. “I’m here because you are clearly stuck in this case and because Molly is my friend. I want to help.”

“Don’t you have a child to care for?”

Mary’s eyebrow cocked at this. “Are you saying that because I’m a woman?”

John winced. “Sherlock, as much as I think you need to have your block taken off right now, I’d advise you to tread carefully before you answer her question. Mary hits a lot harder than I do.”

Sherlock frowned. “I have not now nor have I ever been sexist. I take great offense to the notion that you would believe me to be so. I merely asked my question because Abby has two parents equally responsible for her care. However, her father has been with me for the past day and a half. If you, her mother, are also here, it stands to reason that someone could conceivably wonder who is looking after the child. I am her godfather, after all. Shouldn’t I be concerned?”

Mary eyed him a full minute before she relaxed. “Nicely done,” she said.

“Thank you. Now do you care to answer me?”

“I brought Abby with me. She’s downstairs with Mrs. Hudson, asleep. John and I talked earlier and figured it would be safer if we simply stayed here until this whole thing with Professor Moriarty is done with. We said something to you about it earlier. You grunted.”

John snorted. “I told you he was in his mind palace then. When he’s like that, a whole herd of elephants could come through here and he wouldn’t notice.”

“Still,” Mary continued, “he grunted and that means he agreed. You can’t take it back now, Sherlock. I’ve already put our bags in Molly’s old room.”

“Molly’s old room?” Sherlock repeated.

Mary nodded. “Yes, isn’t she sleeping in your room these days? There is no way the both of you were comfortable up there. John and I will barely squig in as it is. I did find it interesting that all her things were still up there, but I thought that was just because you were being stubborn about sharing wardrobe space. I’m fairly sure you have more clothes than Posh Beckham.”

Sherlock said nothing. He had no energy left to argue with anyone. He blearily tottered over to his chair and pulled it into an upright position before dropping into it.  

“Now,” Mary said, righting John’s chair and pushing it in front of Sherlock’s, “what’s all this about?”

It was John who answered. “Sherlock blames me for the fact that Molly’s missing.”

“Been kidnapped,” Sherlock corrected.

John snapped back. “Semantics, you git.”

Mary frowned at both of them. “How is Molly’s kidnapping John’s fault, Sherlock?”

Sherlock explained, relaying the conversation he and John had just had. Mary didn’t immediately respond, just sat there listening and thinking. Finally, she turned to her husband, shaking her head. “You idiot.”

John looked affronted. “Me? How is this my fault?”

“I told you to leave Molly’s and Sherlock’s relationship alone. It’s not your business.”

“But—”

“No, there are no buts. It’s not your business. Period. It is between Sherlock and Molly.”

“But if he hurts Molly—”

“You and I both have seen Molly wallop him across the face three times. Do you really think she can’t handle herself where he’s concerned? Hell, she can probably handle him better than anyone. What’s more, she knows how Sherlock is. She accepts him. Hell, she even likes him just as he is. If she wanted him to take her on a date or send her flowers, do you really think she wouldn’t just tell him so? And how did you think he was going to take wretched advice like that? Sherlock is not a hearts-and-flowers kind of bloke. Most of his and Molly’s interactions, before they were together, revolved around his cases. So what else would he think to do but take her on a case and assume it’s a date?” Mary turned to glare at Sherlock. “And you? You can You-Tube how to fold napkins, but you can’t look up how to take someone on a proper date?”

Sherlock felt his cheeks heat in mortification. He was ashamed to say the idea had never occurred to him. Not that he would ever admit that aloud. He settled for shrugging instead. He also couldn’t stop a massive yawn from overtaking him.

“Sherlock,” Mary asked, her tone becoming softly maternal, “when’s the last time you slept properly?”

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. He knew better than to lie to her. Besides, he was simply too exhausted for subterfuge.

“It’s been at least four days,” John tattled.

Mary looked closer at Sherlock, her expression supple and sweet. “You need to rest. You’re no good to Molly like this.”

He shook his head. “I’m fine. I’ll sleep when I get her back.”

“But you aren’t up to your usual par. Even you must admit that.”

Sherlock waved this off, getting back on his feet. “I’m fine. If you need to mother someone, go find Abby.” He walked over to the wall again, trying to look at the evidence with new eyes. But his thoughts seemed slower than before, as if mired in quicksand.

“But, Sherlock—” John started.

“No,” Mary interrupted. “Sherlock is an adult. If he says he is fine, then he is. Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” he asked, not bothering to look back at her.

“Can I make you some coffee? The caffeine might do you some good.”

He waited a moment, considering this. “Yes, thank you. Black—”

“Two sugars. I remember how you like it.”

He nodded and kept his attention on his notes. _My move. I have the find a way to get to her, to them._ He blinked, trying to push back the alarm that crept into him. _No, don’t think about it. Don’t do that to yourself._ He turned away, intent on checking the computer himself. John might have missed something. But as he pivoted, he found Mary standing in his way, holding out a steaming mug. _That was surprisingly quick._ He hoped that didn’t mean it was instant. Still, he took it, flashing a grateful smile.

Sherlock took a large swig on his way to the desk. _Not instant. Thank God._ The laptop had been knocked to the floor in the scuffle, but seemed unscathed. He picked it up and went to work setting the desk to rights. When he’d settled in his chair and powered on the computer, he took another gulp of the coffee, hoping the caffeine would kick in soon.

As the computer screen came on, his mind suddenly swam. He blinked and tried to clear his thoughts. A huge wave of drowsiness and lethargy came from nowhere. It took another second or two before he figured out what had gone wrong. He looked down at the half-empty mug and back up at Mary Watson.

“You drugged me?” he asked, outraged.

“Yep.” She smirked. “If you were as on par as you think you are, you would have realized that before you drank it.”

He blinked again, trying to keep her in focus. “But Molly …” He licked his dry lips, trying to remember what he was going to say. But whatever she had given him was strong and fast acting.

“You need to sleep. John and I will keep watch. What I gave you will run through your system quickly. You’ll only sleep a few hours. But those are hours you need. I swear to wake you if the professor attempts to contact you.”

“But Molly … kidnapped …” Sherlock tried to get to his feet, but swayed and stumbled. John and Mary caught him, pulling him over to the sofa. They laid him out there, covering him with a blanket.

“We’ll get Molly back, Sherlock,” Mary soothed, rubbing his forehead. “I promise.”

Sherlock looked up at the blonde beseechingly, trying to get her to understand, but it was like attempting to talk while underwater. “N-n-not just Molly.”

“What is that?” Mary asked.

“Professor Moriarty didn’t just take Molly.”

Mary looked alarmed now, but as her face had multiplied like a replicating cell in front of him, Sherlock couldn’t be sure. “Who else does he have?” she asked.

It took the last of Sherlock’s will to answer, and, in the end, he wasn’t sure if he got the name out before the shroud of darkness came up like a whale from the sea and swallowed him whole.

 

**—RE—**

 

The cold was torture. The quiet even more so. The only source of any comfort was the light overhead, which had a tendency to flicker ever now and again, threatening to leave her in total darkness. Molly shivered at the very idea.

She had no way of knowing how long she’d been in this room or how long it had been since the professor had come and gone. Time seemed to move in a different way here. She measured it in times Bruce brought her food and times she’d had to make use of the plastic loo.

Three meals slid through the slot and five trips to the pail. Two days, maybe three. A somber schedule had become the norm. She slept. Bruce used the slot in the door to deliver a plate of semi-edible food and a glass of water. She would eat, trying to assure herself that staying healthy was the best thing. Sherlock would come for her. She had faith in him. She only needed to stay alive, keep her head about her, and be patient. Then, she would attempt to sleep again. Her least favorite time involved the pail, but she refused to ponder that too much.

At first, sleep was an easy thing to accomplish. She assumed this was because of the shock and trauma of her situation. But all too soon, it became nearly impossible to do, not only because she wasn’t tired. The cold temperature in room seemed to get worse, as if it had seeped into her very bone marrow. So, she lay in her bed and started at the wall. This left her with time to ruminate over her situation.

That was worse.  

She was surprised Dr. Moriarty hadn’t returned. Honestly, she had expected him to strap her to some kind of contraption and torture the answers he wanted out of her by removing flesh or electric shock. But he hadn’t. The longer she waited for him, the more she thought she’d watched too many James Bond films. Still, there was Bruce’s face. That was pretty damning evidence towards the professor’s methods.

Molly didn’t know anymore. Leaving her here like this was pretty awful on its own. Just as she had decided that, the familiar and equally unnerving screech of the door being unlocked sounded. She sat up, looking to see who it was.

Bruce once again stood in front of the door. He was dressed in different clothes, which were somehow a relief to see. Likewise, Dr. Moriarty was garbed in a different suit. This one a light brown which complimented his hair and eyes. All that was missing to make him the stereotypical professor was a pipe and a smoking jacket. She idly wondered if his elbows had patches.

He once again took his seat. “Hello, Molly,” he said amicably. “I trust your stay has been comfortable?”

She kept silent.

“I hope you haven’t missed me too terribly. In either case, I’m here to continue our conversation.”

Molly leaned back against the wall, pulling the wool blanket over her shoulders.

“Let’s start with easy ones, shall we? What is your full name?”

She said nothing.

“What are your parents’ names? Occupations?”

Molly hugged the blanket closer to herself, forcing herself to maintain his gaze.

Moriarty smirked. “You are Molly Katherine Hooper, only daughter of Michael and Katherine Hooper. Your father was a construction worker and brick mason. Your mother was a teacher. Both dead. First, your mother and then, your father. Cancer is a terrible thing, is it not? Yes, you’ve had more than your fair share of death and tragedy visited upon you, haven’t you?”

Molly took a breath. _Does he really think this is going to bother me? Try again, you git._ “You are Dr. James Moriarty, a professor by trade who likes to dabble as a consultant for criminals because he gets easily bored. The size of your intelligence is only outweighed by the size of your ego. Well, except for those pesky self-esteem issues you’re dealing with, right? You have one younger brother, Jim, and a pair of unimaginative parents who decided to name both their sons James.” She put a finger to her chin, intentionally mirroring what he’d done during his previous visit. “That, of course, could explain a lot of the self-esteem issues.”

Moriarty chuckled, the sound resembling something a dying seal would make. Molly knew that if she ever got out of here she would never be able to enjoy the aquarium with the same exuberance again.

His eyes danced with mirth. “You really should leave the deducing to Mr. Holmes, Molly. It’s not really your area.”

“You’re trying to claim Jim wasn’t your brother?”

“Oh, he was.” He clapped his hands together. “In fact, it’s something you and I have in common. A dead brother.” He paused dramatically. “My brother was killed by Mr. Holmes, but yours died in a very different manner, didn’t he?” He shook his head in mock dismay. “Heroin overdose at twenty. How utterly tragic.”

He grinned as he leaned towards her. “The true irony, of course, is that after dedicating most of your teen years to trying to save your unsalvageable elder sibling, you then spent your adult years dedicating yourself to another heroin addict. Not just that, but you fell in love with him. Trite. But I guess that explains why you slapped him three times that day he came to you high, doesn’t it? Brought back all those terrible memories of Evan. It probably sent you right over the edge. Mousy Molly Hooper stands up to her master. What I would have paid to see that in person.”

Molly didn’t even want to know how he knew about that. “Sherlock isn’t my master.”

“‘There are none so blind as those who will not see,’” he said. 

“‘There are none so blind as those who will not see. The most deluded people are those who choose to ignore what they already know,’” she retorted. “If you are going to quote, at least use the whole quote.”

“Touché again, Molly,” Moriarty said, cocking his head to the side. “I understand why Mr. Holmes is so fascinated. You are not at all what you seem, are you? I do so love hidden depths. So entertaining.” He sighed. “But, alas, our time together grows ever short so I must change tactics.”

“Do what you will, professor,” she said. “I am not going to tell you anything … no matter what torture you inflict upon me.” She deliberately looked at Bruce before turning back to the man across from her. _Let him know I understand the full measure of pain he can deliver._

“So willing to sacrifice yourself, eh?”

She nodded, concealing any fear behind a mask of indifference.

“Brava, Molly. A very pretty speech, standing up to me like that. But, still, I’m a bit … disappointed. You forgot to promise the copious amounts of punishment your master will visit on me should you come to harm.”

Molly refused to rise to his bait. “You’ll get used to disappointment where I am concerned. I’m sure.”

“I’ve never settled for disappointment. You will find that out yourself before I am done. As much as I would delight in hearing you scream in pain while I wring every answer I want from your lips, my plan dictates that you stay whole for the time being. Thus, I must use other methods to get the results I seek.”

“More mind games, you mean? Bring it on.”

His grin this time was especially creepy. “Bruce,” he said, “please do extend the invitation for our additional guest to join us.”

 _Additional guest?_ Molly stomach sank. Her heart hammered in her ears.

Bruce stuck his head out of the door, motioning with his arm. Two men came into the room, jerking a thinner man between them with a bag over his head. The man struggled against them even as his hands were tied behind his back. The professor rose from his chair, going over to where the three men stood. He reached for the bag over the prisoner, looking over at Molly to catch her reaction.

“Tell me, Molly,” he coaxed. “You willingly sacrifice yourself to save your precious master. But will you sacrifice a friend as easily?” And with that, he jerked off the bag. "You do so have an affinity for heroin addicts."

 _Oh, God. No._ Molly gasped, unable to believe who was standing before her. But there he was.

William Wiggins.


	46. The Choice

“William.” Molly hadn’t meant to say anything, hadn’t wanted to betray her reaction at seeing him thus. But the name slipped out anyway. She cursed the hint of desperation in her tone.

Instinctively, his gaze darted to her. “M-M-Miss,” he said before bowing his head in shame. “I’m s-s-so sorry.”

The youth looked decidedly worse for wear. His face was pale and drawn and bruised. His skin looked clammy, his hair greasy and lank, and his frame was wracked with occasional tremors. In fact, he appeared barely able to keep his feet under him. Molly recognized the signs for what they were.

“The poor dear is suffering from withdrawal,” Dr. Moriarty declared. “But he’s been very, very cooperative. Haven’t you, Billy?”

A cold trickle of fear slid through Molly. Things suddenly made sense. Where Moriarty had been, how he had known about her slapping Sherlock back in the lab.

“Time isn’t dear Billy’s friend, I’m afraid. The longer we go, the sicker he seems to get. I could help him out. Give him a treat. Or I could just ease his suffering altogether. What do you think, Molly?” Moriarty asked.

There was a choice before her, but it wasn’t much of one. Molly wished she had an ounce of Sherlock’s brilliance, anything to be able to know what to do. Instinct told her to say nothing, to remain unresponsive and stone-faced no matter what Dr. Moriarty did. Sherlock’s safety was at stake. Shouldn’t she prioritize that? But her stomach clenched in response. How could she do that to William? He was innocent here, just a kid who’d gotten in over his head. How could she live with herself if he came to harm through her actions?

But then again, this was what Dr. Moriarty wanted, wasn’t it? He wanted to force her hand, make her realize there truly was no choice here but to give him what he wanted. _No. Not now. Not William._

Finally, she took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “If you let him go, I’ll tell you whatever you want. But he gets to walk away, free and safe. That’s the deal.”

Dr. Moriarty snorted. “Always so self-sacrificing, aren’t you?” He shook his head slowly at her, as if she were a child who didn’t understand a complicated concept. “Why would I agree to your terms? You’re going to tell me anyway. Make no mistake, Molly, you hold no leverage in negotiation here. You are a pet. Nothing more. Meant to be trained, molded, obedient.” His eyes blazed with promise. “And you will be. Never fear.”

He looked to the men. “Release him,” he said.

They did as he bid. Without the support of those holding him up, William instantly dropped to his knees. Dr. Moriarty approached him, placing a hand on the younger man’s boney shoulder. Like a dying insect folding into itself, William seemed to collapse under the weight of the doctor’s grip. His body convulsed a few times. That was when Molly realized he was sobbing.

 _We’re going to die._ She knew the chance of that was high before. But somehow it had been easier to swallow when she’d assumed it would be her fate alone. The hours she’d been left by herself in this room had been a dangerous respite as she’d allow herself to hope that Sherlock might just save her. She only had to have faith and endure. But now she accepted the truth.

 _Torture. That’s what this is. Slow, purposeful torture._ Dr. Moriarty had subtle touch, but his methods were as vicious as if he’d used medieval devices. This was his preferred game. This was the area to which he was master. All of her posturing and disobedience had only whetted his appetite, thrown down the gauntlet, as it were. If he’d taken William and had held William all this time, that meant Moriarty had expected her to act the way she had. He already knew how this would all end, and she’d been just blindly following script.

Pulling her knees up against her chest, she wrapped her arms around them and looked away.

This didn’t stop the doctor from asking his question. “Where is Jim’s body?”

“I don’t know.”

“You think now is the time to lie to me?”

She looked back at him, not bothering to hide her animosity. “I said I don’t _know_.”

Dr. Moriarty held out his hand and waited. Without a word, one of the men gave him a handgun. He pressed the muzzle of this against the back of William’s head. His voice was whisper soft and almost gentle. “I’m going to ask you one more time, Molly—”

“Ask me a million times. Shoot him. Shoot me! I cannot tell you what I do not know!” she yelled. Her body shook hard. She hugged her knees closer to her chest, trying to stop it. But it only seemed to get worse.

The gun moved from William’s head and rested against the doctor’s side. “Did you ever see Jim’s body yourself?”

She shook her head.

“Then you don’t know for sure that he’s dead?”

She kept silent.

The gun returned to William’s head. Dr. Moriarty cocked it, preparing to shoot.

“He’s dead. Sherlock is sure. If Sherlock is sure, you can be confident it is so.”

Strangely enough, the professor seemed relieved to hear this news, but equally frustrated as well. It was such a weird combination of emotions to have flit across one’s face when they hear news that their sibling is no longer among the living.

Just as quickly as these emotions presented themselves in Moriarty’s expression, they were schooled behind a veneer of aloofness. “So you believe your master is never wrong, eh? We’ll see about that.” He stepped forward. “And who does Mr. Holmes hold above all others? Who is most important in his life?” He asked. “His protégé? His blogger? His brother?”

He leaned in until he was uncomfortably close, until she could smell the hint of mint on his warm breath. “Or is it you?”

Of all the questions he could have asked, that was the last one she’d expected. Still, Molly kept her gaze locked on Dr. Moriarty, ignoring the tear that dripped down her cheek. “No, it’s not me.”

He searched her face for the truth. She let him see everything. In return, she saw a few things herself. Frustration again. Desperation. Fear. _Odd._

Without conscious thought, she said, “You have been played, _professor_.”

His eyes widened. The fear became more noticeable just before he once again smoothed out his expression. “How do you mean?”

“If you took me thinking that Sherlock was in love with me, that I would somehow be the key to his undoing, then you were mistaken. He’s not weak like me. He won’t sacrifice himself to save me. My death will only be further motivation to find you, to stop you, to kill you.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, studying her intensely. “You truly believe that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s see, shall we?” Pivoting on heel, he turned and headed for the door. With a motion of his head, he said, “Bring them.”

William was jerked back to his feet by one of the men. The second came for Molly. She cooperated, knowing to struggle was useless. Her hands were bound behind her back, and she was marched forward. The floor was cold against her feet until they reached the hallway outside the room. Then, it became warm and moist. Molly tripped several times on the hem of her gown, but managed to keep upright. They were taken up a long series of steps. Two floors. Then brought into a room unlike any Molly had ever seen. Two chairs were situated a foot or so apart in the middle of the room. A large screen took up most of one wall. Electronic equipment stood off to the side.

As she was shoved into a chair next to William, Molly knew something major was about to happen. What that was, however, remained to be seen.

 

**—RE—**

 

Sherlock shot straight up from the sofa, looking around, disoriented. He had a headache, but he felt clearer than before. Sweeping his legs to the side of the sofa, he rose to his feet. He tried to walk forward, but slammed into the coffee table and tangled his legs in the blanket. Unraveling himself and tossing the blanket away, he turned to find Mary and John looking at him. John was seated in his usual chair while Mary was in Sherlock’s.

“No,” Mary said, rising. “There’s been nothing from the professor.”

He nodded, opening his mouth to ask another question.

“Don’t worry how long you slept. You needed it.” She handed him a glass of water and two paracetamol. Once he’d downed these, she said, “Go shower and shave. You’re starting to look like Grizzly Adams.”

“Who?”

She rolled her eyes. Taking him by the shoulders, she steered him towards the lavatory. “Go clean up. I’ll have food ready when you come out.”

“But—”

“I know it’s all transport, Sherlock, but you can’t drive the car if it has a flat tire, correct?”

He groaned, acknowledging the accuracy of her statement and went into the lavatory. Twenty minutes later, he emerged clean, shaven, and wearing a fresh set of clothes. In addition to the clarity of his mind, he felt amazingly renewed. The feast Mary had laid out was a welcome sight.

“It’s a little early for lunch,” she said, “but you need nourishment now. Lots of protein.”

He tucked in, trying to eat enough to sustain himself, but not to gorge. Too much would only slow him down, make him lethargic. When he’d eaten enough to get Mary off his back, he stood and went back to his data board. His eyes frantically took everything in.

“How long have you known he had Wiggins?” John asked.

“From around the same time the professor announced that he had taken Molly. Billy greatly enjoyed the time he spent with you and I in Cornwall. As such, he requested a more comprehensive assignment. I allowed him to trail Molly and myself to the ball. I thought it would be helpful to have another pair of eyes on the ground. He would watch after Molly when I could not.” He swiftly compartmentalized the guilt eating at him. “I deduced they had him when he didn’t respond to my text. He _always_ responds to my texts.”

“You can’t blame yourself,” Mary said.

“Blame is irrelevant.” He looked over the information again, annoyed that nothing new had emerged. “Why hasn’t the professor contacted me? What is he waiting for?” There were several scenarios, but none seemed more prevalent than the other. And, without further data, Sherlock knew he was flying blind. He hated that.

 _No doubt, the professor knows this. He’s guessed your reactions correctly so far._ _This is his game. He controls the board. You must calm yourself and wait for your opportunity to strike—but only after you have figured out which game he is playing. And what he wants._

He turned. “Where’s my phone?”

John handed it to him. “Fully charged.”

Sherlock nodded, checking his messages. Unsurprisingly, Mycroft still had not contacted him. Instead of being angry about this, however, Sherlock grew concerned. It wasn’t like his brother to stay incommunicado this long. Even if he’d been trying to teach him a lesson, he would have already been in touch.

Sherlock sighed, loathing what he was about to do. It wasn’t a task he usually undertook, but desperate times called for desperate measures. There was only one person he knew who Mycroft wouldn’t dare ignore. He scrolled through his contacts and pressed the one he wanted before putting the phone to his ear.

The tones sounded again and again, but no one answered. Finally, he heard a feminine voice joined by an overly jolly male one. In unison, the couple thanked him for his call and, amidst an absurd amount of giggles— _Giggling, really?—_ for people their age, asked him to leave a message, which he did. “It’s Sherlock. Ring me.”

“Who was that?” John asked.

“My parents,” he answered. “Mycroft isn’t returning my calls. There’s a reason for that. I’m just not sure what it is. But if Mummy rings him, he won’t ignore her. He wouldn’t dare.”

“Do you think the professor has him, too?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Mycroft would never be so careless as to allow himself to get kidnapped.”

“Moriarty got past yours and Molly’s security.”

“I assure you,” Sherlock said, “whatever level of security Molly and I had, Mycroft’s is ten times more potent and skilled. Then there is Mycroft himself. My brother may not prefer to wade into physical skirmishes, but that doesn’t mean he can’t handle himself if trouble arises.”

John nodded. “We never found the bodies of your security detail. Do you really think the professor bought them off?”

“It’s possible. But seeing as how I wouldn’t have been able to pick the men out of a lineup, it’s more probable that their bodies have been found but no one has attached them to us. And with Mycroft not answering the phone, it is going to have to stay that way.”

“So what do we do now? Wait for the professor to contact us?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, I’m tired of waiting. Call Lestrade. I want to have another look at Peter’s body. I’ve missed something. That has to be it.”

John was already dialing his phone as Sherlock moved to his computer. He wanted to go through the emails himself. Now that he was clear-headed, he was a better judge of things. But as he opened the laptop, he saw a face he’d never expected to see there.

“Hello, Mr. Holmes. A true honor to make your acquaintance.”

 

 

**—RE—**

 

“Hello, professor. The honor is all yours.”

There was no more pleasing a sight than that of Sherlock on the screen in front of her. Molly inhaled suddenly, as if she’d been holding her breath. Maybe she had been. Her eyes flew over the image of him, sucking up details like a sponge in water. His wet hair combed back against his head. His cheek was shadowed with what looked like a bruise, his left eye appeared swollen, and his nose was scabbed. _Has he been in a fight? With whom?_ Then there was the light blue button down shirt he wore, the charcoal gray suit. The hint of exhaustion in his countenance. The grim determination in the set of his jaw. But it was the supreme arrogance in his voice that truly did her in. He was always so self-assured. It was truly his best quality—especially now as it gave her another reason to hope.

 _He will find us. He will. We will be safe. Soon._ Her heart ballooned in her chest. The air tasted unbelievably sweet, and unexpected tears welled in her eyes.

Moriarty seemed unaffected by Sherlock’s rudeness. “Dr. Moriarty is the title I prefer, Mr. Holmes. I’m surprised you don’t know that. Still, I must say, it’s such a delight to finally meet you face-to-face.”

“Yes, I’ve been … disappointed to have not made your acquaintance before.”

“Well,” Moriarty gave a half shrug. “I’m not one for the spotlight, you understand. That’s much more your area.” He nodded. “And look who is there with you. Your blogger, John Watson. Pleased to meet you. I’m quite a fan.”

“You should come by,” John replied. “We’d love to meet you _personally_.”

Molly bit back a grin. Leave it to John to bring physical threats into an overly civil conversation between geniuses.

“Really, John?” Moriarty drawled. “After trading blows with Mr. Holmes, you still haven’t vented your spleen? Then again, quick tempers and propensities to violence are quite common among veterans returning from war, or so I’m told.”

Sherlock couldn’t see her yet. The split screen showed only Dr. Moriarty. He was standing in front of the camera, talking to Sherlock as if they were old acquaintances catching up. John stood behind Sherlock, looking ready to put his fist through something. Sherlock, however, appeared calm and composed, as if he were talking to an old associate. Somehow, that was all the more reassuring.

Molly darted a look at William. He was getting worse. The shaking was more pronounced, and he’d even dry heaved a few times before the internet call to Sherlock had connected. She smiled, trying to get him to buck up. He looked up, caught her gaze. Something in her expression caused him to straighten. She winked. A ghost of a smile cracked the corner of his mouth.

“I have a surprise for you,” Moriarty said to the camera.

“Really?” Sherlock replied, sounding bored.

“Yes, I am in possession of two items that belong to you. I thought we might discuss some sort of exchange.”

“And what do you want?”

Moriarty chuckled. “Surely you already know the answer? You are purported to be a master detective, able to solve the most complicated of cases with the slimmest of evidence. I would so hate to be disappointed to find out otherwise.”

“You want me to stop my investigation of you.”

“Initially, yes. That is what I wanted. However, that was before, when I thought I could do it on my own. Now, I wish to engage your services to seek him out for me. After all, if you cannot find him, then I suppose no one can.”

“Him?” Sherlock frowned. Then, as if something had just occurred to him, something he couldn’t quite believe, he said, “Jim is dead.”

“Are you sure?”

“I saw him blow his brains out. Yes, I’m sure.”

Moriarty took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “I see. That is … unfortunate.” He paused. “Still, there is something I want.”

“You didn’t take it then?”

Moriarty shook his head. “Afraid not. And since I don’t have it and you don’t have it, that leaves only one place for it to be. He wanted to smoke me out, as they say, make me show my face. And he did so. But there is a price for his actions, Mr. Holmes, and it is a price you will pay.”

Sherlock took all this in coolly. Finally, he said, “Sorry. I don’t work for free.”

“I didn’t expect that you did,” Moriarty said. He waved his hand, and the screen in front of Molly changed, showing her and William.

Sherlock didn’t react. Instead, he kept his gaze and attention on Moriarty. “Release one now and then the other when I return your brother’s body to you. Then, we can both just walk away.”

Moriarty moved, placing himself directly between William and Molly. “We are men of the world. Surely you don’t expect me to believe it would really be that easy. You, I am told, are like a bloodhound. Once you are on the trail, you never give up. So I believe it is best that I make an example so you will understand how serious I am.” The gun was back in his hand. He held it close to Molly’s head for a bit before moving it over to William’s.

Sherlock said, “Kill them if you must, but you will never get your brother back without my cooperation. You know this. Otherwise, you would have left me like I was, spinning in circles from a distinct lack of evidence. Well done, by the way. Your plan to keep me distracted almost worked, but for your one fatal mistake of contacting me. You need me, professor, much more than I need you. As such, you will do what I say. Release one of your prisoners now. Then, once I return your brother to you, you will release the other.”

The room was silent, too silent. Moriarty didn’t react at first; so Molly couldn’t tell how he was taking this obvious seizure of control. As Moriarty was someone who routinely seemed to know how everyone would respond, she was unsure whether this was following according to his plan or something out of left field. Based upon the reactions of Moriarty’s followers, it was something they certainly hadn’t been expecting.  This was a dangerous game Sherlock was playing, but he knew what he was doing. At least, Molly hoped he did.

“I am _Dr._ Moriarty, Mr. Holmes. You would do well to remember that.” He moved the gun back to Molly. “Now choose which one you would like released. I promise they will be back in your care by day’s end.”

Molly looked at Sherlock, praying he would look back at her. She wanted him to choose William. He _had_ to choose William. She could make it for another few days. He would not. But Sherlock never looked at her, never even spared her the slightest hint of a glance. Instead, he shrugged and said, “Either works.”

“One isn’t more important than the other?” Moriarty said, leaning close until his lips brushed against Molly’s ear. “Did you hear that, Molly? He doesn’t care which of you he gets back first.” He looked back up at Sherlock. “If you don’t choose, I will.”

Sherlock, however, wasn’t inclined to take orders. “Have the first at my flat by sundown. I have no doubt you know where to find me. I’ll have Jim’s body to you by week’s end—if not sooner. You can then release the other one.”

“Choose.”

“No, _professor_.”

Without another word of warning, Moriarty raised the gun and fired. At first, Molly was confused by the blast and the specks of blood and flesh that now dotted her gown, arms, and face. But as she looked to her side and saw William’s body slump forward, blood rushing from his head like pink punch from a bowl, her brain completely shut down in shock and blunt denial. _No. William. Not William._

"How … _unfortunate_ ," Moriarty tsked before his voice sharpened. "You work for me, Mr. Holmes. Never forget that. I give the orders, and you follow them. This is a simple transaction. I want my brother's body back. I will have it back." He grinned menacingly, as if he hadn't just killed someone in cold blood. "Seems fair, doesn't it? One dead protégé for another?"

He raised the gun again. Molly felt the muzzle press against the back of her skull. "You have your week's end. Otherwise, I'll be sending you two bodies." He winked at the screen. "Tick tock."

Then, everything went black.


	47. Calculated Risk

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, holding his breath as he blocked out everything else for the barest of seconds. Everything, but this. _This. This._ Guilt, grief, anger, fear, sadness, and relief. The riot of emotions welled within him like a black hole threatening to suck him inside. _No. Focus._ Then, just as quickly, he shoved it all away, opened his eyes, and shot to his feet.

“Oh my God! Did he just … But …” John seemed unable to finish a thought as he remained gawking at the now blank computer screen. “Is Wiggins …”

“Dead. Yes,” Sherlock said. He noted Mary standing near the kitchen, arms crossed over her chest, lips tightly compressed. He knew she’d remained out of the professor’s view purposely. Not that it mattered in the end.

They shared a look. But a minute was all he could stand before he glanced away. He hoped Mary’s keenness of mind would further make her aware of everything that had been said, what it meant, and what must now be done. His patience was razor thin as it was.

 _Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! How could you miss it? It’s so obvious!_ He walked to the window, pushing the curtain aside as his eyes darted up and down the street. _No._ He waited, trying to be sure. _None. Still. That’ll make things slightly easier_. Finally, he dropped the curtain and strode across the room. He grabbed his coat, sliding it on.

John, apparently having snapped out of his horrified stupor at Wiggin’s death, charged up. “What are you doing?”

“That should be fairly obvious. I’m putting on my coat,” Sherlock said. His left off his scarf. It was far too warm outside. He flipped about, intent on locating his phone.

John purposefully stepped in his way, eyes wild with emotion and judgment. “You’re not going to react at all? Wiggins has just been killed, and you feel nothing? He was your _friend_.”

“He was my protégé,” Sherlock corrected, dodging around him. “He knew the dangers associated with the job. I was quite thorough on the subject before I agreed to take him on.” He found his phone on the desk and slipped it into the pocket of his coat before flipping back around.

Indignant, John blocked his path once more. “So that’s it? Wiggins—no more than a damn kid—was just murdered in cold blood because he chose to work for you, and you can’t even scrounge together an ounce of remorse or guilt?”

Sherlock hated how completely knackered he felt in this moment. It wasn’t practical or constructive. He compartmentalized the feeling away with everything else. “Would that bring him back?” he snapped, not expecting his question to be answered. “Then you’ll excuse me if I employ myself in a more productive manner.”

“You heartless bastard.”

Sherlock absorbed the stabbing insult. “Yep.” Then, without another word, he ducked around John once more to head for the exit.

“So what now?” John called after him.

“Now, I locate Jim’s body.” He looked to Mary as he made it to the door. “You can take care of things here?”

Always quicker on the uptake than her more fervid husband, she nodded. “Shouldn’t be a problem. John, you should go with him. He’ll need your assistance.”

John’s mouth gaped open as he sent bewildered looks to his wife and best friend. “You’re both mad. Stark, raving mad. Do you know that?”

Sherlock left, taking the steps quickly. John followed, providing a comprehensive list of loathsome creatures to compare his former flatmate to. Sherlock let him. It made things easier. Besides, he didn’t necessarily disagree with John’s assessment of his character. _Stupid! That’s what you are._ _How could you have missed something so asininely simple? How long? No more than a week surely. Still! All those hours you were here and you noticed nothing! You’re slipping, old man!_

Once they made it outside, he hailed a taxi. When the black car pulled up to the curb, he went to the main window, handed the driver some cash, and gave him an address and a set of instructions. The cabbie gaped at him as if he’d lost his mind. Still, the hefty sum offered proved enough of an inducement for him to agree. Sherlock took out his phone, passed it to the man, and looked back to John with his hand out.

“Give me your mobile.”

John eyed him a moment before complying. After all, he’d worked with him long enough not to argue when it came to situations like this—especially when they were not alone. Sherlock gave the cabbie this phone as well. Seconds later, the cab took off.

The consulting detective immediately moved around his partner and returned to 221. Once they were both inside, John started up again.

“What are you doing?” he said, his previous anger now apparently supplanted by confusion and curiosity.

That at least Sherlock knew he could work with. Ignoring John’s attempt at questioning him, he found the keys he needed and went downstairs to 221C, unlocking the door.

“Did you hear what I said?”

Just as John had opened his mouth to speak again, Sherlock took him by the wrist and jerked him inside the basement flat. The door slammed behind them. Sherlock pressed the doctor against the wall with his body, bracketing his arms on either side of John’s head as he leaned in. “John—” he whispered.

John stiffened, his eyes widening in alarm as he attempted to angle his head away from Sherlock’s overly close proximity. “W-w-what do you think you’re doing?” he yelped in distress.

 “Quiet,” Sherlock hissed, slapping a hand over the shorter man’s mouth. “Do you want everyone to know we’re down here?”

As John’s response was muffled and distorted, Sherlock removed his hand. “What was that?”

“I said it depends,” John replied, warily. “What exactly are you trying to do?”

“I was _trying_ to explain what’s going on.”

“OK. Why do we have to whisper?” He swallowed audibly. “And why do you have to stand so _close_?” He looked decidedly uncomfortable. “You’re practically on top of me. Back up.”

Sherlock growled in frustration, irritated by his best friend’s assorted idiosyncrasies when it came to overt demonstrations of simple intimacy—especially between two males. Decidedly inconvenient at a time like this. _Why doesn’t he ever just think things through logically? Always reacting first._ He inclined his head forward again, intent on getting this done.

“I said back away.” John put a hand on Sherlock’s chest and shoved him off. He sounded like some Regency-era debutante intent on protecting her virtue from the rakish cad. “I don’t care who just died upstairs. Now is not the time for you to lose your mind and try _anything_.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at this. “John, if I wanted to seduce you, it would have happened a long time ago, and you would have enjoyed it …” He deliberately ran his gaze up and down his friend’s form and leered in a way that had never failed to get Molly all hot and bothered, “thoroughly.”

He took immense delight at seeing John squirm at this declaration. _That’ll teach him a lesson he’ll won’t soon forget._ Sherlock then abruptly dropped all attempts at artifice. “Now, may I continue with what I was originally going to say?”

John, seemingly choking on his tongue, mounted no argument.

“Good.” Sherlock leaned in a third time, his mouth against John’s ear, and whispered, “Moriarty has bugged my flat. Mary is locating the devices now. Once she completes her sweep, we’ll be able to return upstairs.”

Sherlock moved back enough to catch John’s reaction. John opened his mouth and closed it several times, as if incapable of crafting a response. Whether this was from the news Sherlock had just relayed or all the faux seduction talk from before was uncertain. Sherlock enjoyed the quiet while it lasted and waited. Finally, the doctor cleared his throat and whispered, “And the bit with the mobiles in the cab?”

“Moriarty has a tracker on mine and, if he doesn’t currently have one on yours, he will soon. Having them riding in a cab for a while should prove an interesting diversion. Moriarty will think I’m already on the case. It won’t last long, but it will buy us some time. It’s important that the professor not know where I’m going. I have a few burner phones stashed in Mrs. Hudson’s flat. We can use those. Now, you must stay here and remain quiet. I need to search this area as well as 221A to see if they have cameras and/or bugs. Do you understand?”

John nodded, looking overwhelmed. With all that had happened, that felt appropriate.

Once his task was complete, Sherlock returned. “All done,” he said. “As I expected, all listening and recording devices were regulated to my flat.”

John apparently had used the time alone to collect himself. “What if Moriarty has people watching the building? He’ll know you didn’t get in the cab.”

“I’ve been waiting and watching for just that for days, had most of my homeless networking on the lookout as well. I also checked again before I went out for the cab. Before he contacted me, I was confused as to why the professor didn’t have anyone watching us. Then everything made perfect sense.”

John frowned. “What made sense?”

“Didn’t you hear him, John? He knew you and I had a physical fight recently. None of us have left here or talked to anyone. Moriarty could have only known one way.”

“He had cameras placed in the flat.”

“Exactly, but I’m not sure how long.”

“But how did this intruder get in and get out of 221 without tipping off Mycroft’s security?”

“Not sure. I only know the cameras couldn’t have been here longer than the last time I did a sweep, which was before you and I took off for Cornwall. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but thank God for Mycroft’s eternal nosiness when it comes to my life.”

“But if the cameras were put in a week ago, that means the professor had someone in the flat while Molly was alone. Why didn’t he take her then?”

“He didn’t know he needed to take her then. When I had Mary hack into Earl Denton’s schedule, it somehow tipped the professor off. Once I had Mary work with Billy to disable Denton’s security system so the necklace could be taken, Moriarty likely deduced that I meant to intercept the earl at the ball. Putting the bugs and cameras in the flat would have filled him in on the rest.”

“You lied to me?”

That shut down Sherlock’s train of thought abruptly. “What?”

“You said Mary didn’t help you steal the necklace. You _lied_ to me.”

“Oh. That. Yes, but I would remind you that we were standing in front of the custody sergeant for the Met at the time. I could hardly admit the truth then, could I? Besides, I’m the one who did the actual stealing. Mary simply assisted with a few cyber-related details. She’s far more skilled in that area than I. Not sure why she’s wasting her considerable talents being a nurse.”

John looked decidedly put out.

“What?” Sherlock said, confused by John’s rapid mood shift. “It’s true. Can we get back to the original conversation now, please?”

John gritted his teeth. “So, basically, the professor set you up from the beginning?”

“Yes, but not the way I initially thought.”

“Why do you sound disappointed by that?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Moriarty is making mistakes I hadn’t thought one of his caliber would make.”

John frowned. “So you’re disappointed because the game isn’t as elaborate as you would have liked? You’re afraid it will be over too soon because the professor isn’t as smart as you’d assumed?”

Sherlock had lived with John long enough to know where this line of questioning was heading, and he had no interest in seeing it through. However, his unwillingness to respond to John’s inquiry only seemed to further incite his former flatmate’s wrath.

“Sherlock, might I remind you that this apparently less-than-brilliant man just killed Wiggins and still has Molly? Criminal genius or not, the man’s a psychopath, a murdering psychopath who has your _girlfriend_.”

 _And that’s the end of enough._ “Don’t call her that,” Sherlock said, abruptly leaving 221C.

“Why not?” John said, hot on his heels. “Because you don’t feel that way about her? Because you don’t _feel_ at all? Someone just died for you and you can’t even be bothered to call him a friend. Molly Hooper has sacrificed everything to be with you, has given you her heart, and might even die because of you and you cannot even bear to have someone say she’s your girlfriend?”

Sherlock’s carefully cultivated composure vanished. He turned and slammed John against the wall, an elbow thrust against the shorter man’s throat. “You know nothing. Do you hear me? _Nothing_! Nothing about me. Nothing about Molly. So do the world a favor and shut the hell up!” As curtly as he grabbed John, he released him and spun to make his way back upstairs.

Another Watson, however, stood in his way. Mary. She looked at her husband, slowly shaking her head in disapproval. “I told you,” she said. “Not your business.”

“After that very meddlesome lunch you had with Molly,” Sherlock growled as he stalked around the blonde, “you’re one to talk about minding one’s business.”  

He didn’t wait on her retort. Sherlock took the stairs two at a time. John and Mary followed him, but it took a while. No doubt, there were things the pair needed to say to one another. Sherlock took the time to once again compose himself, pacing the confines of the sitting room. Calming down was harder this time. He didn’t bother to try to figure out why. It was a waste of time, a commodity they were fast depleting.

When the Watsons did finally make it upstairs, Sherlock expected Mary to defend herself, but she didn’t. Instead, she said, “I’m sorry. I let curiosity get the better of me and interfered where I shouldn’t have. It won’t happen again.”

There was a moment of awkward silence before she elbowed John in the side, nodding in Sherlock’s direction.

John cleared his throat. “I-I-I’m sorry as well. How you process emotion is different from me, and I don’t have a right to judge you.”

Mary elbowed him again. “And?” she prompted.

“And your relationship with Molly is none of my business.”

Sherlock ignored all of this as he looked to Mary. “The cameras?”

“Whoever put them here knew what he was doing. They were quite difficult to find.”

“Did you get them all?” Sherlock asked.

Mary looked affronted. “Of course. I’m a professional.”

He nodded, relieved. 

“Which reminds me,” John said. “We’ll be talking about you helping Sherlock steal that necklace when all of this is over, Mary. I thought we agreed to not keep secrets from each other.”

Mary looked like a toddler with a hand caught in the cookie jar. “Umm … absolutely,” she agreed.

“Where are the cameras now?” Sherlock asked.

“In the kitchen. You had some hydrochloric acid in there. I put it to good use.”

He nodded, approving of her methods.

“I also put in my mobile,” she added.

John grunted in frustration. “Am I the only one who missed the fact that the place was bugged and trackers were on everyone’s phones?”

“Yes,” Sherlock and Mary said in unison.

“Sorry I asked,” John responded bitterly. “And even though you both already know the answer to this as well, I am just going to ask anyway: Why didn’t you choose between Wiggins and Molly, Sherlock? Making Moriarty angry by refusing to play his game only made things worse.”

Sherlock had been waiting for that question and the considerable amount of blame that came with it. “The one I chose would’ve been the one he shot.”

John paled. “What?”

Mary nodded. “He’s right. The one Sherlock chose to be released first would have been the one he cared about the most or the one he was worried about the most. It’s why Moriarty took two people. It’s an old psychological warfare tactic, but effective. When you want your subject to know you’re serious, when you want absolute obedience, that’s what you do.”

“Why?” John rasped. “If you kill the one that’s more important, aren’t you taking a chance of making the subject less obedient?”

“No, the subject feels responsible, guilty. They made the decision, see? They’ll be putty in your hands. Believe me. It doesn’t have to make logical sense. It’s about emotion, and it works.” Mary took John by the hand. “Think if it were me and Abby and you had to choose. Who would you choose?”

John didn’t speak. He didn’t seem to be able to.

“You’d choose our daughter because she’s just a baby and I could survive longer under the kidnapper than she could, right?”

John gulped and nodded.

“So he shoots Abby and then tells you what he wants you to do. You are so overwhelmed with guilt, grief, and fear about what just happened as well as the worry that I would also be taken from you that you become desperate, desperate to do anything he demands. Then, he has you. You’re obedient without question. Now do you see?”

“And what happens when the kidnapper gets what he wants from the subject?”

“Everyone dies, John. The kidnapper would kill me and then you—as soon as you brought him what he wanted. No loose ends that way.”

John looked to Sherlock. “So you had to act like you didn’t care which one he killed?”

Sherlock nodded. “It was my only chance of throwing Moriarty off balance. If I maintained control, he won’t dare kill the surviving one. Molly’s safer now than she was before. I’m still too unpredictable for him to be sure I’ll do as he wishes.”

“And if he’d killed Molly instead of Wiggins?”

Sherlock knew what John was trying to get him to acknowledge, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. It didn’t matter. One of them would still have been dead because of him. He would have still felt this way. It changed nothing. He tried to speak, but found his mouth suddenly too dry to do so. He coughed, cleared his throat and tried again. “One of them was going to die. I couldn’t save them both. Billy—Wiggins—was clearly suffering. Pale, clammy skin. Signs of vomiting. Uncontrollable shaking.”

“Withdrawal symptoms. Heroin withdrawal,” John offered.

Sherlock nodded again. “He—” _Liar._ He broke off as Molly’s voice played in his mind. _Don’t try to cover it up now, Sherlock. What was the true reason you picked that poor boy to die? Tell me. Tell me. Tell me._ “H-h-he was clearly the weaker of the two. Logically, Molly had the best chance of surviving; so—”

“So by not choosing her, you saved her life.”

Sherlock nodded a final time, unable and unwilling to say anything more about it. The Molly in his head, however, was relentless. _You had a 50/50 shot. If you’d done one thing out of place, twitched an eyelid at the wrong time, looked at me for one second, gave him any indication that you cared_ … _but you looked at William, didn’t you? You looked your fill at him. May as well have shot him yourself._

_It was a calculated risk. That is all._

_Liar. You promised not to lie to me, Sherlock, remember?_

He shut all this down, turned away, and collapsed into his chair.

“So, how do we get Molly back?”

“Sherlock has to get Jim’s body back,” Mary said.

“But isn’t that what Moriarty wants? Wouldn’t he just kill Molly and Sherlock then?”

Mary nodded. “If Sherlock were to give him the body, but he won’t.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed. “I won’t. Not until he gives me Molly.”

“So you’ll use the body as leverage. Great. But how do we get it? It’s missing, isn’t it? How do we know Moriarty isn’t just sending us on some kind of wild goose chase?”

“He isn’t,” Sherlock said. “He doesn’t have the body. He’s been searching for it all this time, but he couldn’t get to it. That’s why he took Molly and Wiggins. Don’t you see? He needed me.”

“He needed you to be busy doing other things so he could get away with his big plan for world domination, you mean.”

“No, he needed me. Specifically _me_. Why?”

“Because you’re the world’s best detective? But that only explains why he’d want you occupied with something else while he plows on ahead with his real plan.”

“No, didn’t you see his face? He’s enraged that he doesn’t have the body, and he’s desperate to get it.”

“But it’s been missing for months. How on earth could anyone uncover where it is? How would you even know where to begin? If Moriarty doesn’t have it, who else would have a motive for taking it?”

Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin. “Exactly, John. Who has a motive for taking it? Only two people I can think of would have a motive, and we now know the thief isn’t Moriarty. So who is left?”

“What are you talking about?” John said. “Who has Jim’s body?”

“The one person I can find that no one else can. The one person who will turn over the body to me when I ask for it. The one person who’s had it the whole time.”

“Who is that?” John asked.

Mary and Sherlock answered in unison again. “Mycroft.”


	48. Code Words

“So you’re saying … What are you saying?” John asked, seeming completely flabbergasted. “How is it possible that Mycroft has Jim’s body? Didn’t he admit to you that he lost it?”

“Clearly, he lied,” Sherlock said, irritated with himself not to have figured this out earlier. This knowledge, of course, made seemingly insignificant details he couldn’t reconcile previously now make complete sense. _Especially considering how he never seemed to be very concerned that the body was missing. His anxiety seemed to be more that I find the culprit behind everything._

John frowned. “You’ve been taking the piss out of him for months because he lost it. Why would he lie?”

“Good question,” Sherlock said. _For which I have my own theory. Running tests, Mycroft? What kind of tests exactly were you running on that corpse?_

“Wait.” John perked up. “Is that why Mycroft was sacked? Did he superiors find out the truth?”

“Possible. Not probable. Mycroft had too much oversight and power. They wouldn’t have questioned him if he’d done away with it completely. In fact, that’s probably what he told them he did do. No, I believe Mycroft’s sacking is due to Dr. Moriarty. He needed my brother out of the way for something. He could have used Earl Denton to get Mycroft sacked. The only one the government listens to more than Mycroft is the earl.”

“But the question is why did Moriarty need Mycroft out of the way?” Mary offered. “The professor had to assume Jim’s body was in the government’s hands. Maybe he felt Mycroft was keeping him from it and, by getting him sacked, he could retrieve it unobstructed.”

“Good point, but there really isn’t enough evidence. I won’t know for sure until I find Mycroft.”

“He still hasn’t contacted you?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “He’s gone underground, and as my parents have yet to ring me back, I would say he put them away somewhere. He’s done it before. They would have gone with him without question.” 

“Which means he knew Moriarty was looking for the body as well as what he would do if he couldn’t get it. But why not tell you? You could have prepared. You could have prevented Molly’s and Wiggin’s kidnapping,” John said.

Sherlock’s gaze locked with his friend’s. “Exactly.” He had his own suspicions regarding that as well. And if they were confirmed …

The ramifications of everything left the room silent for a few minutes. Finally, Mary and declared, “I shot the wrong brother.”

“You may yet get a chance to rectify your mistake,” Sherlock said grimly. “Then again, I may do it for you.”

“So now what?” John asked. “We find Mycroft? I assume he’s not at the Diogenes Club?”

Sherlock shook his head. “He won’t be at his estate either. Too obvious.”

“Which is why Moriarty needs you to find him. You’re the only one who could.”

Sherlock nodded. “The problem is doing so without leading the professor there myself.”

“Then why are you still here?” Mary asked. “It would have made the most sense for you and John to just go.”

“First,” Sherlock said, “I needed to make sure the cameras were regulated just to my flat.”

“Why?” John said.

“So I would have an idea what Moriarty has overheard and what he hasn’t.” He turned to Mary. “Were they in my bedroom, too?”

Mary nodded. “And Molly’s old one as well.”

Sherlock exhaled hard. “Second, we need to deal with the problem of security of Mary, Abby and Mrs. Hudson.”

“We’re fine,” Mary said with a frown.

John looked at Sherlock, slightly panicked. “Why are you worried? You think he’ll come after them?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s possible. He must know you all plan to stay here now. When I have Jim’s corpse, Moriarty may feel the need for more leverage.”

“So you don’t think Molly is safe for the time being?”

“He wouldn’t dare harm Molly.” Sherlock was surprised by the vehemence of his tone. He’d nearly shouted that. Still, he was confident in his assertion. That was the point. He swallowed, trying to get himself in control. “Moriarty won’t harm her. Not now. But having more leverage is always a good thing.” He looked at Mary. It was enough to communicate his intention.

“You’re not serious.”

He cocked an eyebrow at this and waited.

“No,” she said, planting herself in John’s chair with a huff he imagined Abby replicating in about a year or so.

Sherlock sighed. “It’s the only way, Mary. You know that.”

John darted glances between them. “What? What are you two talking about without actually expressing all of your thoughts aloud? That’s an annoying habit, by the way.”

“No,” Mary affirmed to Sherlock, crossing her arms over her chest. “We’ll be fine right here. I have my gun and everything. I know I can’t go with you, Sherlock, but you can’t seriously think you’re going to take me away from all the fun?”

“You know he will come here or, at the very least, send someone. He’ll have to.”

Her grin, all teeth showing, was menacing. “Exactly. I look forward to personally making the acquaintance of anyone who shows up.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. This was the problem with trained assassins. They rarely recognized their own limitations. “Be reasonable, Mary.”

“Be logical, Sherlock. How do you expect to manage if you need to hack into something? It was me and Wiggins that assisted you in getting that necklace. And with Wiggins dead and me out of the picture, it’s not like you know how to do any of that, as brilliant as you are.”

“I’ll manage—just as I did before I met either of you. Come now. You know Moriarty will bring more men here than even someone of your considerable talents can manage.”

Mary glared at him. “You have no idea the full range of my _talents_ , Sherlock Holmes. I may have given birth recently, but I assure you I am in top form.”

“And the baby? Would you have Abby in danger?”

“Of course not,” she said, thinking on her feet. “I still have a few contacts. I’ll put Abby and Mrs. Hudson in a safe place.”

“You need to use your contacts and expertise to make sure you three disappear, Mary. That is what is best. I doubt the professor was aware of your considerable skillset before today, but finding the cameras as you did and hiding yourself as you did when he came through on the internet will no doubt rouse his suspicions.”

“He’s right,” John said, walking over to kneel by the chair in front of her. “You know he is.”

Mary looked down at her husband. “I love you, John. I do. More than I have ever loved anyone in my life—well, except for that beautiful little girl we created downstairs. I have given up a lot to be with you—and her—and I don’t regret any of it. But this is a time when I can’t meekly sit back and allow those I love to possibly be hurt. Sherlock is right. I cannot stay here alone, and we cannot send Mrs. Hudson away with Abby all by herself. We need to be assured of their safety.”

Sherlock was confused. “What are you saying, Mary?”

But this time, John understood Mary better than anyone. He took in her words, as if he were considering them carefully, weighing the pros and cons of some momentous decision in his mind.

“You know I’m right,” she prodded.

“No,” he finally answered, like a judge pronouncing sentence.

“Is it because I’m a woman?”

He shook his head. “You know better than that.”

“Because I’m a new mother then? Lost my mojo?”

He shook his head again. “You could shoot better than me while giving birth to twins, and we both know it.” He sighed. “But he and I have been partners for years. We each know how the other works. It’s instinctive at this point. We trust each other. You’ve worked on your own for so long, you’d have a hard time not fighting him to take the lead. You two are too alike in that way. He needs to take the lead, Mary. He figures it all out, and I am there to bounce ideas off of and to make sure he isn’t doing something too reckless and stupid. Then, I bring up the rear and, if needs be, I save him. It might not be perfect, but it’s how we work.”

Then, Sherlock understood. Mary had thought to take John’s place at his side. Meanwhile, John would be off protecting Abby and Mrs. Hudson.

A tear fell down Mary’s cheek. “Molly’s my friend, too, you know.”

John nodded, leaning forward to cup Mary’s cheek. “I know that, and we’re going to get her back. We will.”

“You better.” She smiled sadly and leaned down to kiss him.

Sherlock felt an unexplained pang in his chest as he watched the couple comfort each other. An all-too-familiar longing hit him with the force of a bus. _Molly._ He didn’t just want her back because no one should ever dare touch his pathologist—or his _anything_ for that matter. No, he wanted her back because he longed to touch her, to know she was safe and sound, and to see that silly, little smile she got whenever she saw him after a prolonged absence. The intense yearning flooded him only moments before he pushed it all away.

Sentiment. It was dangerous—a distraction which would hinder him if he allowed it. But as much as he tried to shove it away, it remained there, in the far recesses of his consciousness. It was willfully stubborn, this sentimentality over that petite, unassuming woman. Watchful and patient and faithful and ever knowing.

_Just like Molly._

He closed his eyes and turned away. “Enough,” he hissed to himself.

John and Mary pulled away from each other and looked at him. Mary wiped away a tear. “Sorry,” she said. “We got a bit carried away.”

Sherlock didn’t bother to correct her assumption that he’d been talking to them. “Mary, you need to be gone in the next thirty minutes. I’ll run down to Mrs. Hudson and tell her pack a bag. Take one of the burner phones. Remain hidden until you hear from either John or myself. If you receive a text that says, ‘Bring milk,’ you know to return here. We will be waiting for you. However, if you receive one that says, ‘Vatican Cameos,’ you are to run and don’t stop running. Do you understand?”

She nodded, a watery smile appearing. “You boys do like your code words, don’t you?”

Sherlock smiled back at her this time. “They do come in handy.”

Her smile slowly withered. “And if I don’t ever receive a text at all?”

He sighed, knowing well what she was asking. And while he didn’t feel that was a true probability, it was certainly a possibility. It was _always_ a possibility. “Keep your daughter and Mrs. Hudson safe. No matter what. They are your priority. Do _not_ come after us. Understand?”

He could tell by the willful set of Mary’s jaw that she didn’t want to agree. But all it took was John’s hand on her shoulder for her to acquiesce. She finally nodded again. “And you keep my husband and yourself safe. Do you understand me, Sherlock? You go get Molly back and then you both come home. Safe and sound or I’ll kill you myself. Got it?” Mary threatened.

Her attempt at levity wasn’t lost on him, but he simply couldn’t participate. For the first time, he considered not taking John with him. After all, his partner had a family now. There were real sacrifices, real dangers. It was one thing for an ex-military bachelor to take on, but something else entirely for a married father with a full time job as a GP.

He turned to John, his mouth opened to speak.

“Don’t even think it,” John interrupted, returning to his full height. “You’ve never been magnanimous a day in your life, Sherlock. Don’t you dare start now.”

“But—”

“You need help. Doing this alone is the surest way for you to get yourself killed. Hell, it’s probably what Moriarty wants.” He put his hands on his hips. “We’ve been in worse jams and come out on top. I don’t see why this one would be any different. Besides, he has Molly and he killed Wiggins. I’ll be damned if I’m just going to stand idly by and do nothing.”

Sherlock nodded, knowing better than to argue any further. He got to his feet. There was no time to lose. “Come on, John. Mary, pack and bag and be gone within the half hour. I’ll leave a burner phone for you downstairs with Mrs. Hudson.” Reaching into his wallet, he procured a business card and handed it to her. “If you run into trouble, call this man and ask him if he sells fish and chips.”

Mary looked down at the card. “This is a florist.”

Sherlock stared at her a long moment.

“Right,” she agreed with a flippant, what-was-I-thinking? shake of her head. “You’re Sherlock Holmes and you have a code word for everything. I ask him about fish and chips. Then what?”

“He’ll tell you where to go. Follow his instructions. He can get you whatever you need.”

Mary nodded and, before Sherlock was aware of her intentions, she hugged him. Then, with a swift kiss to his cheek, she released him and went over to her husband. Sherlock turned away, went to his room to retrieve a few items, and then came back into the lounge. He said nothing to the now-embracing couple. He just went downstairs to get the burner phones and to say goodbye to Mrs. Hudson and his goddaughter.

With any luck, the farewell wouldn’t be a permanent one.


	49. A Little Cloak-and-Dagger

“I thought you said Mycroft wasn’t at the Diogenes Club,” John said as he and Sherlock got out of the taxi in front of the building which housed his oldest brother’s “second home.”

“He isn’t,” Sherlock brusquely answered, giving the cabbie a few instructions and some cash before turning to walk up to the front door. He nodded at the doorman who let them in as they passed.

“Then why are we here?” John said. “Oh, wait, let me guess. There’s some complicated ritual you must complete which involves code words, sign language, and a golden key. Then, they’ll give you a map with clues which will, in turn, give you the whereabouts of your absconded sibling.”

Sherlock stopped abruptly, so abruptly that John accidentally slammed into his back. Once both men had situated themselves in terms of balance and appropriate personal space, John looked up at his best friend and smirked. “Well, have I got the right of it?”

Sherlock scowled. “Have you been watching that Duke of the Jewelry tripe again?” He shook his head. “One would think with a wife, baby, and a full-time job, you would find better things to do with your leisure time.”

“You mean like chasing you around on cases? Ha! I should think you—Wait a minute! Duke of the … Did you mean the _Lord of the Rings_ trilogy?”

Sherlock waved this off. “My point remains relevant. I would remind you that your dealings with me have never involved over the top cloak-and-dagger experiences, fantasy creatures, or overly complicated quests to find and destroy bedeviled rings.”

Sherlock expected John to point out all of the times during their cases that, while not dealing specifically with enchanted rings or fantasy creatures, did have their cloak-and-dagger moments. _That’s what makes them worth the time._

Instead, John beamed and said, “So you _did_ watch the movies then? What did you think? I told you you’d like them. Mary said it was a horrible Christmas present for you, but I knew—”

Sherlock turned on heel and walked away. After all, there was no need to continue with _that_ absurd conversation. One desperate decision committed on an especially tedious Sunday needed no explanation or defense.

He entered the main vestibule, John hot on his heels and muttering to himself. Sherlock paid this no mind and walked up to the black-haired man in the unassuming, but starched-within-an-inch-of-its-life black suit standing behind the gleaming reception desk. Sherlock, of course, had seen the man here before—many times—but had never bothered to learn his name. _Isn’t that what nametags are for?_ Unfortunately, the man knew exactly what to call Sherlock.

“Hello, Mr. Holmes the younger,” he said.

 _Wonderful._ Sherlock gritted his teeth. Even with Mycroft not here that was how they addressed him. While in uni, he’d briefly considered getting a doctorate just to be called “Dr. Holmes.” Anything which would distinguish him from the original and illustrious _Mr. Holmes_. In the end, Sherlock knew that no matter how much he detested being called “Mr. Holmes the younger” and no matter how much it would greatly annoy Mycroft to have to be “Mr. Holmes” next to his younger sibling’s “Dr. Holmes,” he simply didn’t have the patience or fortitude to master the intense study and bear long years it would take to garner the title. No one in the Holmes family ever had.

 _Well_ , he mentally amended, _except Mummy_.

Sherlock had settled, instead, on mastering and utilizing his unique talents to foster his own brand of notoriety as a consulting detective. As such, Sherlock Holmes had an international reputation and, for most of the world, it was the first—and possibly only— _Mr. Holmes_ they knew.

In retaliation, Mycroft made sure the staff at his favorite club—and anyone else he could find to indulge him—always called his little brother by what he termed as Sherlock’s “proper title.”

With a swift glance at the polished nametag affixed to the man’s coat, Sherlock said, “Yes, Pierson. Hello. Is Higgins available?”

Pierson nodded and picked up a nearby phone. Moments later, a white-haired elderly gentleman, dressed in a similar black suit came from the back. “Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes the younger.” He gave a nod to John. “And, Dr. Watson, of course. How may I be of service?” he asked.

“Are we in time for tea?”

“Yes, sir. Should I set you up in one of the sitting areas or would you prefer somewhere more private?”

“The Wellington Room should suffice. How is your rosehip and citrus tea today?” Sherlock asked. “It’s been an age since I’ve had a good rosehip and citrus tea. I’d also like a few cucumber sandwiches and biscuits.”

Higgins gave a low bow of his head. “Of course. If you will both follow me.”

“Mr. Holmes the younger?” John asked, barely holding off a smile.

“Shut up,” Sherlock hissed, trailing Higgins. At times like this, it was supremely annoying how well his best friend knew him and, moreover, what minor things irritated him.

“Sure thing.” John sniggered before adding, “ _Mr. Holmes the younger_.”

They made it down the corridor and through the first sitting room before John spoke again, “Sherlock, why are you—”

A chorus of loud _shushes_ startled John into halting his question.

 _Really?_ Sherlock glared a warning at the doctor before continuing on his way. _How many times does he need to come here before John understands that speaking in certain rooms is strictly forbidden?_

Quiet followed them as they navigated past another sitting room, down a short set of steps and to a gilded lift. Higgins pressed the call button. Sherlock could all but hear the questions bouncing about in John’s head. The man was practically yelling. He sighed, wondering where all the trust and instinct was between them which John had been fairly bragging about to Mary.

They made it to the third floor with its thick carpeting, brown lacquered walls, and appointed furnishings; past a stately sitting room filled with cigar smoke and a dozen silent men who looked older than God, and to a nearly-inconspicuous door located at the far end. Here, Higgins stopped, produced a key card, and with a swipe against the side of the door, unlocked the room. He ushered the two men inside before following after and quickly closing the door behind them.

The Wellington Room was diminutive in comparison to those around it, feeling even more so as every wall but one was filled with bookshelves which were fair to bursting with leathered volumes. Still, Sherlock had always liked it. It was cozy and the perfect place—besides 221B—for one to sit before the fire and spend nice evening thinking. Mycroft, of course, preferred the room for an altogether different reason.

A grand fireplace took up the lone, unencumbered wall. A pair of dark green wingback chairs sat in front of this, a modest, round table situated between them. Sherlock claimed one of the chairs and motioned for John to take the other. Higgins raised his hand to a switch located above the mantle on the fireplace. One press of a finger, and a fire began to blaze.

“Anything else, sir?” Higgins said.

Sherlock declined and excused him to return to his duties.

There was another low nod. “I’ll just get the tea then.”

The second the door was closed behind the older man, John twisted about. “You’re a member of the Diogenes Club? Since when?”

“Since Mycroft and his cronies first founded it all those years back, I suppose.”

“Mycroft founded this club?”

“Of course. Who else could desire to create a club which caters solely to powerful, mysophobic, introverted dandies whose greatest desire is to occupy the same room as their peers but to never speak or look at them?”

“But why would _you_ be a member?”

 _Tedious._ “After everything else we’ve experienced today, _this_ is what you want to talk about?”

John ground his teeth—a habit he seemed to have developed of late. “Answer the question.”

Sherlock sighed. “Mycroft did it initially as a bit of joke, but there are certain … perks which come with membership that we have utilized over the years.” He waved a hand around the room. “For example, this area can only be accessed by senior elite members of the club—of which there are two.”

“Mycroft and you.”

Sherlock nodded and cast a glance at the door. At his reckoning, they had no more than six more minutes before Higgins returned. _Best get to it then._

John, however, interrupted him before he could. “OK. But what are we doing here? Care to fill me in? I should warn you that telling me we are merely having rosehip tea is going to earn you a facer.”

Sherlock raised a brow at this. “You’ve become entirely too violent of late, John. Perhaps you should start seeing your therapist again.” He jumped to his feet, walking over to the closest bookcase. He scanned the titles, looking for the one he needed. _No. Certainly not. No._

John cleared his throat, demanding to be noticed. Sherlock rolled his eyes and kept searching.

With a great, beleaguered sigh, John got to his feet. “Tell me what we’re looking for.”

He looked down at his watch. _Four minutes._ “ _A Tale of Two Cities,_ I should think. No doubt, Mycroft is feeling brutalized by the aristocrats lately _._ ”

A minute of silence passed before there was a grunt of victory.

“Found it,” John said.

Sherlock pushed away his annoyance at being bested thus and took the book. Opening it, he flipped to the title page. “‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,’” he recited before unceremoniously ripping the page out.

“Sherlock, what are you— I’m pretty sure that was a first edition!”

“Of course not. It’s a third. Mycroft would never be so reckless with classic British literature.” Sherlock shoved the book back at him and said, “Return it to its former position. Quickly.”

He tucked the pilfered page into his inner coat pocket and reclaimed his seat. John had just done the same when Higgins returned, carrying a large silver tea tray. Placing the tray on the round table, the older man went about setting out the various items for tea. With a great amount of eloquence born from a lifetime of service, Higgins poured and prepared the cups of tea and handed them out to the two men. With a small flourish, he pulled the ornamental silver lid off a plate of delicate sandwiches and elegant, chocolate-trimmed biscuits.

Sherlock picked up a spoon and stirred his tea, inhaling the steaming beverage’s distinct and faintly metallic aroma. _Perfect._

“If there will be nothing else, sir?”

“That is all, Higgins. We’ll see ourselves out when we’re done.”

“Thank you,” John shot out, sending a chiding frown Sherlock’s way for his lack of manners.

The door had just shut behind Higgins when Sherlock put his tea down and moved to retrieve the paper from his pocket.

“Is there a reason we have a fire going?” John asked. “It is bloody summer, after all.”

Sherlock looked to John to reply when he noticed his former flatmate had lifted his own teacup to his lips and was about to take a sip. With a growl of annoyance, Sherlock snatched the cup away, sloshing a bit of the amber liquid on both the doctor and the carpet.

“What are you doing?” John demanded, grabbing for one of the linen napkins Higgins had supplied to blot at his now-damp trouser leg.

“Making sure Abby retains her paternal parent. I may be her godfather, John Watson, but I think we both know I’ll never be a proper authority figure for her—not as you would be. Children need that, especially during their formative years.”

John froze, eyes moving from Sherlock to his teacup, which had been returned to its saucer sitting on the table. “You think it’s poisoned?”

“I _know_ it’s poisoned.”

“But we’re at the Diogenes Club! You’re a senior elite member, for Christ’s sake!”

“Of course.”

“But you’re Mycroft’s brother! He founded the club. He’s their bloody employer!”

“Who do you think told them to poison it?”

That left John gobsmacked for a few moments. “Mycroft is trying to kill you now? Did I miss something or did you two just take sibling rivalry to a whole new level?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. Long ago, Mycroft and I devised and put in place a set of contingencies in case he ever needed to go underground quickly. He would leave me a message which would indicate his direction. I only needed to come here to uncover it.”

“So why poison the tea?”

“It’s not a poisoned _per se_ ,” Sherlock explained, holding up the ripped page from the book. He dipped the page into the tea, drenching it completely before pulling it back out and flattening it on one of the petite, porcelain plates located on the tray. Sherlock brought the plate close to the fire, letting the dish and paper become heated. John got up to watch. As a few minutes went by, both men observed the wet paper as dark, scrawls slowly began to form.

“Invisible ink,” John said in an awed tone. “I guess that explains the need for a fire.”

“Yes, the tea is laced with a chemical which acts as a reagent as the paper dries.”

“You know, most people just use vinegar or lemon juice as a reagent for invisible ink. But the Holmes brothers? No! Got to be deadly poison or why even bother?”

“It’s only poisonous if you drink it, which is important if the wrong person were trying to get this information. And this is a specialized kind of invisible ink—only reacts to this type of reagent. I actually developed it myself. After all, we can’t have just anyone stumbling across Mycroft’s messages.”

“You think someone is just going to randomly try to find invisible ink on the title page of _A Tale of Two Cities_?”

Sherlock frowned. “You never know. Mycroft has many enemies—more so than me at times. Besides, it’s not the only book he put a message in.”

“So we have to deface more heirloom novels?”

“Of course not. There are fifteen books in which he has placed information. I simply had to make a deduction to figure out which one fit this particular situation.”

“I see. So you think your brother is in Paris?”

That confused Sherlock. “Why would I think that?”

“ _A Tale of Two Cities_ is about London and Paris. We are in London. It makes sense he would be in Paris if that’s the book he used.”

Sherlock shook his head. “He’s been fired from his position. He’s on the run. He—”

“Wouldn’t that better fit _The Count of Monte Cristo_?”

“First, _The Count of Monte Cristo_ is written by a French author—Alexandre Dumas. Mycroft is nothing if not a British subject first. Thus, only British literature would do. And, second, you would need to understand the complex system Mycroft and I put together in order for me to be able to deduce which book I needed to locate.”

“So let me see if I understand this. You know who wrote _The Count of Monte Cristo_ , but you still don’t know that the earth revolves around the sun?”

“On second thought, have as much the tea as you like.” Sherlock mockingly smiled, displaying his teeth. “ _Please_.”

John rolled his eyes. “But what about the tea? What happens if someone just comes in and randomly orders rosehip and citrus tea? They die?”

“First, no one is going to order that particular combination of tea. It’s not on any menu here, and it is not something which is usually put together. Second, if someone did perchance order it, the select members of staff who have been apprised of this—which number three—have been told to add the chemical only when they are sure it is me or Mycroft ordering it. Lastly, it has to be served in this room. Otherwise, no chemical.”

“And on the off chance that someone managed to disguise themselves as you or Mycroft and ordered the tea in this room? What then?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Then they deserved to be poisoned.”

“So three employees know about this little ploy you’ve both cooked up? What if someone gets to one of them? Finds out?”

Sherlock had to admit that John was raising good questions. “These trusted employees were specially chosen for their reliability in maintaining confidentiality. But, if they ever did let something slip about the chemical in the tea, they still wouldn’t know what the chemical is, what it does, or how to deduce the appropriate book or select the correct page in that book which would have the writing on it.” Sherlock leaned in towards his friend. “Thus, it’s the perfect plan.”

Stumped and seemingly out of questions, John sat back in his chair with a disgruntled grunt. Automatically, he reached over to the tray, taking one of the sandwiches. He was about to take a bite, but paused, looking suspiciously over at Sherlock.  “And the sandwiches and biscuits? Are they poisoned as well?”

“No. I ordered them because I assumed you might be hungry. You often are when we are on cases. Anytime I can avoid incessant whining about the barren state of your stomach is a good thing. Plus, the cucumber sandwiches will keep you hydrated since we aren’t having tea.”

That left John speechless. _See? I can be thoughtful when I put a mind to it._ Sherlock took this opportunity to turn his attention back to the drying paper. _Another few minutes should do the trick so the words will be fully legible._

John consumed the food at a voracious pace, which amazed Sherlock considering it had only been a few hours before that they’d eaten a meal with Mary. Still, the silence this guaranteed him was a welcome respite. That is, until he realized it allowed thoughts of Molly to intrude. Then, he grew uneasy and impatient and began to reconsider the intelligence of a plan which was dependent upon one having to wait so long for paper to dry. By the time the last biscuit crumb had been consumed and Sherlock had pointed out the crease of butter occupying John’s upper lip as well as nearly driven himself mad with impatience, the page had finally dried.

 Both men leaned down to read the words Mycroft had scrawled.

_Beware the Ides of March._

“Ah,” Sherlock said after everything clicked into place. “Of course.” And, with that, he crumpled up the page and tossed it into the fire, taking a moment to make sure it burned before he got to his feet and walked over to the bookshelf on the right. He glanced over his shoulder at John, who was still seated. “Shall we?”

“Shall we what? Look for more books?”

“Nope.” Wedging his hand along the inside of the third shelf, Sherlock pressed the secret latch located there. There was a slight clicking sound before the entire bookshelf popped forward like a door opening, revealing a darkened corridor behind it. “Shall we go? Out the back is preferable. We might have been followed. If so, this is the best way to lose anyone who is watching for us to come out the front.”

“Do I get to know where we’re going? What does ‘Beware the Ides of March’ mean? March 15 is the Ides of March. It’s the day Julius Caesar was supposedly assassinated. Does that mean we’re going to Rome or something?”

“Not bad, John,” Sherlock said, pulling out and flipping on the torch he’d purposefully brought along from his coat pocket.

“So I got the right answer, eh?” John’s face fairly glowed with imminent brilliance.

“Of course not. You’re terribly off. Couldn’t be more wrong.” And, with another word, he entered the tunnel behind the bookcase, expecting John to naturally follow. But he didn’t.  

“Git. He’s a right git. I don’t know why I ever think he’s going to be otherwise. I should have killed him years ago. Would have been a favor to the world.”

Sherlock softly chuckled. He couldn’t help himself. He’d missed this part of casework with John. But, as they were fast running out of time, he popped his head back into the room to glare at his partner, who was still muttering threats to himself. “Coming? Oh, and don’t forget to turn off the fireplace.”

Once John had done all this and the bookshelf/door was firmly shut behind them, Sherlock took off down the passageway, John again right on his heels.

“OK. If we’re not going to Rome, what does the clue mean?”

“You were right about the connection to Julius Caesar, but it’s the quote itself that’s important not who it is about. It’s from the play _Julius Caesar_ by William Shakespeare. As such, we’re going to Shakespeare’s birthplace. Stratford-upon-Avon. _That’s_ where Mycroft is.”

“You and your brother need serious help. Psychological-level help.”

Sherlock made a swift left down a corresponding passageway, pushing cobwebs out of his face as he went. “And why do you say that?”

“You two just sat around coming up with these scenarios on the off chance that someone might one day want to come after you and you would need to disappear?”

“Yes, so?”

“And you think that’s normal?”

“Normal or not, the practice has kept Mycroft and myself alive on more than one occasion. It’s also the comprehensive and reliable process we used to determine and develop the scenarios for faking my death—all thirteen of them.” He stopped, waiting until John was up close and searching the wall for the knob he knew to be hidden around here somewhere. “Understand?”

“No,” John said.

Finding what he sought at last, Sherlock turned, jerked John to stand in front of him, said, “Remember to bend your knees,” and hit the knob. The floor suddenly slanted, and they jolted, fell, and began descending down a slide at a rapid pace.

A few minutes and surprisingly feminine screams from John later and they landed in a motley pile on the cement floor of the building next door—not that he expected John to be able to recognize that at this point.

Sherlock was first on his feet, using the light from a nearby basement window to make his way. He walked over to the window, unlocked it, and shoved it upward. With a flourish of his hand, he said, “And this is our exit. See? I have the taxi outside waiting for us around the corner, and we shall make our getaway to Stratford-upon-Avon without further delay or worrying about anyone following us.” He grinned, supremely proud of himself. “Comprehensive and reliable. Now do you understand?”

John stumbled to his feet, wiping off the dust and debris that had collected on his clothing as he went. “What I understand is that Mr. Holmes and Mr. Holmes the younger like to take cloak-and-dagger to a whole new level. You two could give Tolkien a few tips.”

Sherlock scrunched his face in confusion. “Who?”

But John merely shoved him aside to climb out of the window and into the alley way. When a moment’s pondering in no way alleviated his confusion, Sherlock shrugged and followed after.


	50. Hide and Seek

_She is just so … small._

It had been the first thing he’d noticed about Molly Hooper, the feature which always struck him hardest when it came to her. From her lips, so dainty and naturally such a delicate shade of pink, to her stature, short and petite. The only thing sizeable about Molly were her eyes—always so brown and earnest and accepting —and her ire when she was angered.

Sherlock felt the side of his mouth quirk at the memory. _Such a little spitfire_. After all, there were few people who could match her temper when she was riled. But his flicker of amusement didn’t last long. After all, spitfires, like all flames, could be snuffed out under the right conditions.

On more than one occasion, he’d been reminded of just how fragile Molly was. It was so easy to crush her. Not just physically. One scowl, one declarative sentence uttered too loudly could reduce her, make her fade almost into the background—a talent she’d no doubt spent years perfecting. The least offhand comment could send her fleeing from the room in tears. She wore her tender heart on her sleeve, her unfailing generosity on her face, and her innocent dreams like bright clips in her glorious hair.

And now Moriarty had her, had his frail, little Molly Hooper. _How broken will she be_ , Sherlock wondered, _by the time I get her back?_ Would he be able to fix her? Make up for all she had suffered? Or would the innate purity of her soul—the one trait of hers he’d only now realized he revered above all others—be irrevocably shattered? Would she just disappear altogether? Be another innocent casualty of this seemingly never-ending battle with Moriarty—like Billy Wiggins?

_No, I can’t think about Billy, too. Not now. Perhaps, not ever._

The fury and guilt and fear that have been brewing inside of him from the second he realized Molly had been taken would no longer be suppressed. No, they’d grown into a fierce storm of hurricane proportions, crippling him mentally. It was all he could do to maintain his standard façade of aloofness, his rational mindset. Those were the things that would assist him in recovering her.

Not sentiment.

_What use is it to worry about her? To fearfully imagine what injuries, offenses, and invectives she could even now be forced to bear at the hands of a psychopath like the professor?_

Sherlock knew he would cheerfully absorb every abuse she would suffer as his own. He’d endured torture before. He could cope. He knew how. There was no innocence left to destroy in him, no injury that could prove irreparable. Not really. He would take her place. Offer Moriarty whatever he wanted in exchange. _Damn Mycroft. Damn the country. Damn everything._

But that’s not how the world works. No, it is filled with innocents harmed through no fault of their own. In a hunt, there were always prey. In a war, there were always casualties. In a game, there were always pawns. There are certain truths one must accept about the world. This was one of them. He usually swallowed this truth with a grim, but judicious relish. But, today, it tasted like ash in his mouth.

“Sherlock? We can talk about it if you like.”

He glanced across the table at the outside café he and John sat down at some thirty minutes ago. His partner nursed a cup of coffee and was finishing the last of his breakfast. “Talk about what?”

“Molly. I can tell you’re worried.”

“Worried?” He brought his own teacup to his lips and took a spirited swallow. He winced minutely at the taste. “Why would I be? She’ll be fine.”

“She witnessed Wiggins being murdered.”

He shrugged. “She’s around death all the time.”

“Yes, but normally after the grim reaper has paid his visit, not during the actual reaping! Shootings are traumatic events, Sherlock. Molly isn’t you or me or Mary. Not to mention whatever torture Moriarty is putting her through right this minute.”

Sherlock flinched, looking away to hide this reaction before he replied, “I told you. Professor Moriarty won’t dare harm her. She’s a necessary piece in his game. He needs her to keep my attention. If he hurts her, I won’t play. Do you see?”

John stared him in a way Sherlock knew from experience never boded well. “So you’re not worried about her at all then?”

“What benefit would that have, John?” Sherlock chided. “You know my methods.”

John continued to stare at him, long, hard, and assessing. Then, with a shake of his head, he said, “Bollocks. You’re worried. You might have covered it well back at the flat, but you forget, I know you. I’ve also spent the last day and a half entirely in your company. I’ve watched you.”

Sherlock turned his attention back to those passing them on the street, refusing to rise to that obvious bait. No, he would cling to the equilibrium of his rationality. He would suppress this rising tide of sentiment. Molly depended on him. He would not fail her.

“Sherlock, you can talk to me about this. You know that, right? There’s no weakness in admitting your fears. Hell, I’m worried sick about Molly myself.”

A shaft of pain stabbed at him with every word that came out of his friend’s mouth. Why couldn’t John just leave it alone? Sherlock sighed and made a decision. After all, life sometimes presented these little opportunities for him to further his business partner’s education when it came to the art of deduction. Best to seize them as they came. “And what evidence do have to support your deduction?”

John’s jaw hardened, an indication his anger was rising.

Sherlock pressed forward. “You have been watching me, or so you say. You have used the information you gleaned from your observations to form a deduction. Now, we have reached the point where you put everything together in a concise explanation.” He waved a hand in invitation. “Proceed.”

The doctor clearly recognized a challenge when he saw one. He straightened, eyeing Sherlock straight on. “You haven’t spoken all morning. Come to think of it, you said little on the train yesterday afternoon and even less when we checked into the bed and breakfast last night. From what I can tell—and the thumps coming from the room next door—you spent the whole evening pacing.”

Sherlock dismissed this and returned his attention to the street. “Irrelevant. All of the listed behavior is typical of me when I am on a case. If that’s all you have, then I think we can dispense with—”

“You’re drinking whisky in your tea.”

Sherlock turned back at that, catching John’s stern expression.

“I may have gone to the loo earlier, Sherlock, but I saw you dose your cup. The bottle is still in the right pocket of your coat. Want me to get it for you? If I had to guess, I would say you’ve had it since yesterday. I’ve never seen you drink this much tea while on a case. You usually take in enough to stay hydrated, but that’s it. So far, between the train and today, you’ve had seven cups.”

Sherlock glared at the implication. “I am _not_ intoxicated.”

“No, I’d say you’re taking a nip here and there to deal with your nerves. You forget. I’m a soldier. I’ve seen this behavior before.”

Sherlock felt a blush rising in his cheeks. “Now I lack courage? Really, John? How long have you known me?”

“‘Nerves’ in your case means worry, Sherlock. They’re getting the better of you. You’re worried about Molly, which is perfectly normal. Talk to me.” When Sherlock turned away again and remained stubbornly mute, John growled, “Talk to me, you cock. I’m your best mate. If you can’t talk to me, who can you bloody well talk to? Believe me, you’ll feel better.”

“I don’t want to _feel_ anything.”

John gave a ragged sigh. “Too late for that, I suspect.”

Sherlock’s gaze shot back. The two men shared a long, intense look. Finally, when it all came to be too much, Sherlock finished the last of his “tea” and said, “Fine. Yes, I am worried. There. Happy?” He fisted his hands in his lap. “But it doesn’t mean I’m second guessing myself. I am right. Moriarty won’t hurt her.”

“I see.”

Sherlock felt his blood run cold. Something about that simple statement made him feel naked and exposed in a way that he didn’t like. “I’m fine. I just need to smother these ridiculous emotions and get on with it all. I will—”

“Molly’s a hearty woman.”

He ceased speaking at John’s declaration, blinked as the emotion welled within him again.  “Yes, she is.” After a moment’s pause, he said, “She’s also petite, naïve, overly sensitive, too generous, and way too easy to intimidate.”

“Intimidate? Please! She’s put up with you for years. The insults, backhanded flattery, the constant exploitations so you could get what you want. Molly navigates it all like a pro with nary a hair out of place and a smile always on her face. I’ve watched you dress her down with a barrage of cutting remarks, and she didn’t bend one iota.”

“I once informed her that her boyfriend was gay and sent her crying to the loo.”

“She slapped you three times for taking drugs and then didn’t back down when you tried to attack her for breaking off her engagement to Tom. She was fierce.”

“She wasn’t so fierce when I easily manipulated her into giving me an entire head to experiment on. I assure you, she never saw it coming.”

“And yet she maneuvered _you_ so well that when you went to inform her Mycroft was putting her in a safe house until all this business with Moriarty blew over, she refused to go and ended up living with you instead. In fact, she isn’t just living with you, is she? She’s your _girlfriend_. Hmm … Mousy Molly Hooper is dating Mr. I’m-Married-To-My-Work. I don’t think _anyone_ saw that one coming. Well,” he hastily added, “except Mary.” He thought a bit. “And Anderson, apparently.”

Sherlock knew he was grasping at straws at this point, but he couldn’t help himself. “Molly gullibly brought me a Christmas present when she knew I hated Christmas and, as a result, was publically mortified when I deduced it was for someone for whom she held in romantic regard.”

“Yes, an act for which she then made you apologize—without explicitly telling you to. It was the first time I had ever seen you willingly apologize to anyone for anything.”

Sherlock looked away again, growing more and more frustrated. _Didn’t John see? Why did he have to be so obtuse? Didn’t he know how much worse Moriarty would be to her than he ever had?_

“Moriarty isn’t _me_. Can’t you understand that? He will … She will … It will …” He couldn’t finish. To finish was to make it all true, and he wasn’t sure he could deal with that right now. He looked down at his empty tea cup, wishing it were full again.

Out of his peripheral, he saw John shake his head. “Sherlock, Molly Hooper is the strongest, most stubborn, most determined, and most enduring woman I know. She has buried both of her parents, been on her own most of her adult life, excelled in a career and field that is heavily male dominated and not at all forgiving to women, and has the single worst string of boyfriends and fiancés I have ever seen in my life—and never once lost her pleasant nature or dream of living happily ever after. What’s more, she has tolerated, stood up to, and loved you for years now. She’s practically Teflon at this point. Whatever Moriarty does to her, she will survive it because she is, first and foremost, a _survivor_. If there are repercussions that she needs help with, we will help her.”

 _He’s right. Dear God, he’s right._ Almost unwillingly, Sherlock felt something inside of himself break loose. The tightening vice of terror that had been holding him emotionally prisoner since the evening he’d learned of Molly’s kidnapping relaxed, allowing him to breathe freely—if only for a few vital minutes. Tears bit the back of his eyes, but he blinked them away. His hands gripped his knees, needing to hold onto something. He took a shaky breath.

 _Relief. That’s what this was._ It was a sweet, heady feeling, not matter how fleeting.

The logical part of him issued a plethora of cautions against heeding John’s conclusions, but he didn’t listen. He didn’t want to. Closing his eyes, he just savored the calming sense of relief for the barest of moments. Then, he opened his eyes, took a deep breath, and got to work. The quicker he found Mycroft, the quicker he would have Molly returned to him. His eyes flew back to the street, scanning the packs of tourists crowding the walkways. _Soon._ He glanced down at his watch. _Any time now._

The River Avon flowed behind them, bringing with it a slight breeze blowing in from the east. The faint sound of organ music intermingled with the din produced from the walking, talking, shopping, eating, and gawking tourists. Locals mixed in with the crowd, going on about their business. The smells of street food vendors mixed with the scent of frying bread wafting from the café he and John were still at. A man stood on one street corner, dressed in Shakespearean garb and pathetically warbling his way through what was arguably one of Richard III’s better monologues.

“Sherlock,” John began again.

Sherlock held up a hand to stop him, caught his gaze. “Thank you for your assistance,” he said before looking back to the street. The actor had grown softer and less sure of himself as people passed him by, paying him no mind. Still, the man continued on.

A long moment passed before John spoke again. “OK. So how do we find your brother? I assume you two have a meeting place established? Let me guess, Shakespeare’s tomb at noon but only if you have the correct password?”

“You’ve been watching too many of those spy films you like. That is far too convoluted.”

John gaped at him. “You don’t think all of that back at the Diogenes Club was convoluted?”

Sherlock raised an imperious brow at this. “No. I told you, I have to _find_ Mycroft. Getting into the Diogenes Club just gave me his direction, it didn’t tell me where he was. He can’t know I haven’t been followed or risk leaving clues lying about that someone else might find.”

“So how will you locate him? I assume he isn’t that man over there badly reciting _Romeo and Juliet.”_

Sherlock frowned. “It’s _Richard III_. _Romeo and Juliet_? Really, John?”

 “Whatever. The point is that we don’t have a lot of time for dillydallying. Should we just be sitting here?”

“You didn’t mind so much when you were ordering your breakfast, did you?” He didn’t give John a chance to defend himself. “Calm down. I’ll have Mycroft’s location pinpointed shortly. After my quick jaunt out last night, I’ve narrowed it down to one of eight possible places.”

“Eight? This is Mycroft we’re talking about. He is the British government. He probably trains MI6 on weekends after breakfast and before tea. Hell, he could be that waiter over there, and you probably couldn’t tell the difference.”

Sherlock’s frown deepened. He wasn’t sure whether to be confused, worried, or offended by John’s assertions. “Where do you get these outrageous ideas?”

“You told me he found you in Serbia. He learned the language in a matter of hours and successfully infiltrated the army to get to you.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth, “so he could have a front row seat while I was being beaten. Besides, he didn’t find me. I told him where I was going to be during my last check in with him. What is your point?”

“My point is that if the man wants to disappear, I think he could do an admirable job. No one could find him.”

Sherlock smirked. “ _I_ could. There are many things Mycroft can do better than me, but hide is not one of them. If I want to find him, I will. He knows this. In fact, he’s probably counting on it. Mycroft might be better than me at chess, but _no one_ beats me in hide and seek. This has always been so.”

John seemed confused. Then, his crinkled brow cleared as something seemed to occur to him. _Good_ , Sherlock thought, _I was beginning to wonder if fatherhood had damaged him completely._  

“What jaunt last night? You spent the whole evening pacing in your room.”

“No, I spent the evening waiting for the house to quiet down so I could slip away undetected.”

“Why didn’t you take me?”

“You were sleeping. I thought it best not to disturb you.”

“Since when? You once burst into my bedroom while my wife and I were sleeping—all for a case!”

“You two are never going to let that go, are you?”

“No, we’re not. Now, tell me why you didn’t take me with you last night. I’m supposed to be here to help you.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I needed to alone. To think. I thought the walk would do me good.”

“So you walked around?”

“I familiarized myself with the city, visited a few of the pubs, talked to a few of the locals, and narrowed down the locations where Mycroft would hide himself. As I said before, there are eight.”

“So why are we just sitting here? Don’t we have eight places to scout out?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. That’s a total waste of our time.”

“It is?”

“Yes. Besides, we’ll have it narrowed down to one very shortly.”

“How? We’re not doing anything.”

Sherlock finally spotted the person he’d been waiting for and grinned, sending a smirk back to his friend. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, digging out a few notes. When the young woman with greasy blonde hair and a ratty coat approached them, she looked skittish and uneasy. That is, until Sherlock held out the money. Then, her expression turned hungry. When she reached for the cash, he snatched it back. “Well?”

She nodded, handing him a folded piece of paper. He released the cash to her and opened the paper, giving it a quick read. “Of course,” he said. “Really, Mycroft? So obvious. You must be slipping.”

The woman fled, blending seamlessly back into the throng of people crowding the sidewalks.

“Was that one of your homeless network? You actually brought one with you? How did I not see her on the train?”

“You have the most absurd theories about me sometimes. The homeless are everywhere. Do you really think I would need to bring one with me? What good with that do? They wouldn’t know this place any better than I would. No, it’s best to find one that’s already here. No one knows the goings on of a city better than its homeless. They blend in and are rarely noticed. Yet, they notice everything … for the right price.”

“So, you walked around last night looking for homeless people?”

Sherlock nodded around at a couple of locations, stopping on the man playing guitar in front of the pub across the way, the two scruffy looking teens hanging out on one corner, and the old woman who was muttering to herself as she pushed an old pram full of bags down the road. “The homeless are everywhere, John. One hardly needs to look for them.”

He got to his feet. “Come along. I’ve found my brother.”

John quickly fell into step with him as they made their way along the sidewalk and turned down an alley. “So is that why you didn’t truly take me with you? Because you were going to engage the homeless network?”

 _Should have known I wouldn’t have been able to hide that from him._ Sherlock couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride at his friend’s burgeoning deductive reasoning skills. “You have a tendency to put them off, make them nervous. They think you’re the police more often than not.”

John sighed. “It’s because I was a soldier. I can’t help it, you know.”

“Yes, I know, which is why I went on my own.”

“So, where is he?”

“You seem to know Mycroft so well. You tell me.”

John looked around. Sherlock could tell he was trying to pinpoint the direction in which they were headed. “The Royal Shakespeare Company Theatre?”

Sherlock snickered. If only John knew how far off he truly wasn’t concerning Mycroft’s skillset. “Nope.”

“The Holy Trinity Church?”

“That’s in the opposite direction. Can’t you hear the organ music?”

“The butterfly farm?”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. “What on earth would Mycroft do there?”

John shrugged. “He’s undercover. He’d figure it out!”

Sherlock chuckled, shook his head, and continued forward, cutting across a side street. Then, making a left, they came across a line of shops in what was a historic district, all of the Tudor facades on the building were a clear giveaway.

“I’m not an idiot, Sherlock. I can figure things out just as good as you can.”

“Well,” Sherlock corrected. “And let’s test out that hypothesis, shall we?” They advanced to an out of the way bookshop called _Puck’s Delight_. “My brother is, I believe, in this shop. We go in, I will stand by the door, and you will have five minutes to figure out which person is him.”

John considered this briefly, nodded, and said, “You’re on. Get ready to wipe that smirk off your face.”

Sherlock waved his friend inside and followed shortly thereafter.

The little shop was full of books, but not of customers. Sherlock counted a mere five in total—not including himself or John. _Child’s play_ , he thought.

An old woman with brown-spotted hands, a white bun, thick glasses, and lipstick on her teeth sat near the till ringing up a young lady who was purchasing a cookbook. A middle-aged man in an expensive suit sat in one of the benches located off to the side, his face obscured by the book on Arthur and Lancelot he was reading. The umbrella next to him was resting indolently against his knee. A young man stood in the science fiction section, debating with his mother about why they couldn’t purchase both of the books he wanted. And, off in the back, was a stooped, old man in a knit cap, dark glasses, and a weathered coat, running his fingers over a length of old leather texts.

John moved about the bookshelves, reviewing his options. Sherlock checked his watch. _Three more minutes._ He moved to take a seat across from the man reading. With one minute to spare, John returned to his side and said, “The old man in the back.”

“Sure?”

 John eyed his choice again. “Yes.” He nodded at the reading man across from them. “You didn’t think I’d fall for him, did you? Too obvious.”

Sherlock chuckled. The teen and his mother shuffled forward to have their purchases rung up, the glowing cheeks of the youth proclaiming to all that he’d won his battle. A few moments later, they departed.

“Well?” John asked.

“Nope,” Sherlock answered.

“What? How?” He shook his head and, without warning, went over to the reading man, grabbing the book from him.

The man— _clearly not Mycroft_ —sputtered. “What do you think you are doing?”

Mortified, John blushed, looking nothing like the hardened soldier he was. “Sorry. So sorry. I thought you were someone else.” Then, with shaking hands, he thrust the book back into the man’s hands and turned back to Sherlock with a glare.

“You cock! It _is_ the old man. I can’t believe you think now is the time to play one of your games.”

“It’s always time to play games, John,” Sherlock said.

The reading man, who was apparently not in a forgiving mood, huffed, tossed down his book, and marched to the door a great deal of rancor. He turned to the old woman at the till. “You shouldn’t just let any riffraff in here, you know.” And, with that, he swept out.

The old man, who had watched all of this, shook his head and moved towards the door. With a nod at the shopkeeper, he exited. Sherlock didn’t move. John gaped at the door and back at his friend.

“Why are you just letting him leave?”

“I told you,” Sherlock said, watching as the shopkeeper went over to the door, working her way there with the assistance of a thick, metal cane, “it’s not him.”

The woman’s gait was stiff and in line with a person of her age. Her hands were gnarled as she raised them to lock the door and pull the shades.

John, whose back was to the door, missed all of this. “Then who is it?”

Sherlock pointed to the woman, who approached them, her gait now more in line with her true age. Her stature was also greatly improved, the cane now more an accessory than a requirement. John turned around. Sherlock didn’t need to see his friend’s face to know he was probably gaping like a fish.

“Hello, Mycroft,” Sherlock said.


	51. Betrayals And Consequences

Mycroft straightened to every inch of his willowy height and removed his wig and glasses, his once-gnarled-looking hands now no longer so. With a grim look of unadulterated condescension, he remarked, “You’re late. I expected you yesterday. Slipping, little brother.” He pointed his cane at John. “And bringing _him_?” He shook his head in disapproval. “You really do take this _best friend_ thing too far.”

“When it comes to cases, John goes where I go. You know this.”

“Yes, but not _this_ time. Not now. Not with _this_ case. Surely you understand what’s at stake? He should be with his family. No doubt, you’ve put them and your housekeeper away. Even you wouldn’t be _that_ reckless not to.”

Mycroft was angry and hiding something. More than just one something, if Sherlock had to hazard a guess. _Well, no more than I’d already worked out._ Sherlock suppressed his own feelings on the subject. They would do nothing but hinder him in this dance they would be completing. “The train was delayed, which means we got in later than expected. Even so, it took me less than a day to ascertain your whereabouts. I think that means _you’re_ slipping, _Mycroft-a_ , not me. As for Mary, Abby, and Mrs. Hudson, they are indeed in hiding. How touching of you to concern yourself with their welfare.”

Sherlock took in Mycroft’s orange, fluffy jumper; fake, sagging breasts; plaid skirt; and clunky, brown shoes before he smirked. “But even as your newly-discovered feminine side has apparently made you more remarkably _kind-hearted_ , it has hampered your ability to coordinate clothing. Orange with plaid?” He tsked sardonically. “What _would_ Uncle Rudi say?”

John bit back a grin even as he held hands up between them. “Boys, if you two can hold off on your usual squabbling for two seconds, we have important business to see to.” He looked at Mycroft and grimaced. “Actually, would you mind changing your clothes first, Mycroft? Seeing you in a dress is freaking me out a bit.”

Sherlock snorted with delight.

Mycroft heaved the sigh of the put-upon. “It’s not a dress. It’s an accordion skirt and a—” He broke off as he seemed to realize what he was saying. “Never mind. Follow me. We’ll adjourn upstairs.”

They trailed him through the shop to a back alcove where an almost hidden staircase led them upstairs to a serviceable and snug, two-room flat suitable for senile cat ladies and grannies the world over. Sherlock missed nothing. The crocheted doilies which topped nearly everything, the porcelain dolls, knick-knacks, and other breakable paraphernalia which took up shelves and every other available nook and cranny in the room, the tired looking furniture, the daybed across from the sofa piled high with little pillows all stitched with quaint little sayings, and the smell of moth balls and old perfume permeating the room. 

Mycroft forced to spend day after day in such a place? _Pure torture._ Sherlock grinned.

“Are your parents here as well?” John asked.

“No,” Mycroft and Sherlock said in unison.

Mycroft, who had begun to unbutton his jumper, frowned at his younger sibling. “They’re safe. No one could find them.”

“Except me,” Sherlock couldn’t help but add, widening his grin.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and tottered around a white partition located near the far wall to finish changing. From his bearing, it was easy to see the opaque tights he was wearing beneath the skirt had ridden up to parts unknown. Sherlock walked over to the kitchenette area, filling and turning on the electric kettle he found there. Mycroft emerged a few minutes later, looking more like himself dressed in trousers and a button down shirt. Nevertheless, without his usual tie, he appeared decidedly un-Mycroft-like. Sherlock handed him a damp tea towel and watched as his brother wiped away the remnants of his carefully applied aging make-up and removed a fake nose.

“How could you tell?” John asked Sherlock, taking the now-filled tea service Sherlock handed him and placing it on the modest coffee table in the middle of the room. “Mycroft could have walked right past me in that getup, and I wouldn’t have known him.”

“That would be the point. A talent for disguise and acting are in the Holmes’ genes,” Mycroft answered. “In addition to our family’s illustrious connections to a baronet, an earl, Vernet, and numerous other brilliant artists and musicians, we have the great fortune of drawing our bloodlines from the eminent Edmund Kean.”

Sherlock sighed, already tired of this conversation. “As a by-blow from one of the man’s many, many liaisons before he died in disgrace. Hardly anything to crow about.”

“Who is Edmund Kean?” John said.

“A celebrated Shakespearean actor of the Regency era,” Sherlock said.

“Yet another genius whose dependence on the use of stimulants led to the inevitable deterioration of his gifts. The apple, it seems, never falls far from the tree,” Mycroft said, eyeing Sherlock with a chiding scowl. “As I said, I was expecting you yesterday.”

Sherlock ignored this and looked to John. “The crack in Mycroft’s veneer is always quite easy to spot. No matter who he is trying to be, no matter how well he conceals himself, he can never, never cover that lovely little expression of disdain that crosses his features whenever he looks at me. It always gives him away.” He reached out to the cane that had been abandoned on the counter. Picking it up, he popped off the top with a bit of flare to show John the sword hidden within. “And he is never without this—be it in his brolly or otherwise. It’s his security blanket.”

“Is that why you’re always carrying the umbrella?” John asked Mycroft.

Mycroft shrugged. “Sherlock has his coat.” _As if that excused anything._

Returning the cane to its original location, Sherlock said, “And there is his OCD, of course. Not a book out of place downstairs, brother. That must have taken you days.” He took a seat on the chintz settee he was sure was older than their mother. He saved his final bit of verbal artillery for the last minute. “You have lipstick on your teeth, by the way.”

He got an immense and almost-giddy enjoyment out of observing the older man scrub at his teeth and grimace at the lipstick now smeared on the tea towel. Yet, enough was enough. It was time to get to work. Pouring himself a cuppa, Sherlock sat back, taking it with him and stirring it slowly. He took a sip before leaning up to add more sugar.

“Sure you don’t want a dollop of whisky in that?” Mycroft replied, never one to be down for long. “You’ve had so much already. I could smell it on you the second you walked into the shop.”

Done with their usual sparring match, Sherlock ignored this. “Start at the beginning, Mycroft,” he said, putting down his cup so he could steeple his fingers under his chin.

John took the space next to him. Mycroft, who’d finished cleaning himself, sighed and occupied the frumpy daybed across from the sofa.

“He’s finally made contact with you,” Mycroft said.

“You knew he would. You’ve had it the whole time then?”

Mycroft sneered, “When have I _ever_ lost anything?” He shook his head. “Yet another indication that you’re slipping. _Sentiment._ Too often, you let it cloud your judgement and blind you to what is obvious in front of you. When will you learn?”

Sherlock tensed, fury at Mycroft coursing through his veins as well as a healthy dose of fear that his eldest sibling might just be right. As suspected, Mycroft was up to something. _Not just something_ , Sherlock deduced. _He’s playing a long game himself._ “Where is it, Mycroft?”

Mycroft waved his hand about the room. “You don’t honestly think I’d have a body here with me?”

John butted in. “But you put it somewhere for safekeeping, like your parents, right? It’s what Moriarty wants. Tell Sherlock where it is so we can use it to get Molly back.”

Something ominous flickered in Mycroft’s expression. Sherlock had seen that look before, knew it too well to simply dismiss it. “He’s destroyed it,” he declared.

John fell back against the sofa, seemingly unable to fathom this turn of events. “Why would you do that? Why lie about it being stolen in the first place? And how did you know Moriarty was going to contact us?”

“More to the point,” Sherlock interrupted, “why didn’t you warn me he was going to take Molly? You did suspect, didn’t you? You must have.”

“The question is why didn’t you suspect it?” Mycroft helped himself to tea before bothering to continue. Stirring his tea, he said, “It was inevitable, of course. The professor wouldn’t have stopped until he took someone. That is the game he is playing. Would you rather it be our parents or John instead?”

“I would rather it be no one,” Sherlock ordered. “If you suspected, you should have said something to me or simply given him the body. That’s what he wants.”

“If you hadn’t been so wrapped up in wooing your _girlfriend,_ you might have figured it out for yourself. It’s not my job to tell you everything, _little brother_.”

John jumped to his feet. “You git! Who do you think you are? These are people’s lives you’re playing with. Moriarty didn’t just take Molly. He also took Wiggins. More to the point, he tried to make Sherlock choose between them. Wiggins is dead, and you might have prevented it.”

Mycroft raised his cup to his mouth, taking a delicate sip. “Who?”

Sherlock grabbed the back of John’s jacket, preventing his friend from launching himself at Mycroft. Pulling him back down onto the sofa, he said, “If anyone gets to hit him, John, I think we can agree it should be me. Yes?”

John, nodded and crossed his arms over his chest, still seething.

“Now,” Sherlock said, “why don’t you start at the beginning, Mycroft? I’m especially curious to hear about what you found in the body.”

Mycroft froze for the barest of seconds, but it was enough to verify Sherlock’s hypothesis. Sherlock pressed his advantage. “Bio-warfare or technology?”

Mycroft eyed Sherlock for the longest time. Then, with a quick glance at John and another sigh, he said, “Technology. The lines of computer code Jim Moriarty dangled in front of us weren’t completely from his imagination. But they aren’t just code, they’re a microchip.”

John snorted in disbelief. “So Jim just had some microchip rumbling around in his pocket?”

Mycroft frowned. “No, he had it implanted in the skin under his armpit. And it isn’t just some microchip, it’s the most powerful chip ever created. Malware and viruses typically come from software. This is hardware, and it creates an easily accessible backdoor into any system. There is no stopping it once it’s in. In the wrong hands, no one is safe from its effects. Entire countries could fall with one keystroke.”

“And the professor wants it back,” John said.

Mycroft nodded. “Something we cannot allow to happen under any circumstance.”

“But if Jim had something so powerful, why not use it in his plan against Sherlock? Or you?”

“He didn’t need it,” Sherlock said. “Jim’s strength was always in his ability to get people to do what he wanted. Emotion, money, sex, threats. He only needed to find their weakness, and then he could exploit them ever how he wanted. He would have seen using the chip as cheating.”

Molly’s voice played in his head. “ _If you uncover the reason Jim targeted you then, you'll have a better understanding of why his older brother is targeting you now."_

He leaned forward, rubbing his chin against the tips of his fingers as he considered this. She was right. _Then again_ , he thought, _she typically is. I’m an idiot not to have listened to her._ “Revenge. That’s what this was. All of it. It has to be. There is no other possible explanation. It wasn’t just about coming after me. That was merely part of a bigger plot. Jim knew the professor was trying to stay below my and Mycroft’s radars. He’d successfully done it for years. But by coming after me and by stealing the chip, Jim would force a reckoning between the professor and me.”

“Why?” John asked. “Because you could take the professor down? Are you saying Jim knew he was going to kill himself up on that roof? It was all part of the plan?”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock said, his mind unwillingly flashing back to that day, to the look on Jim’s face. He’d gone from disappointed one moment to relieved the next. The second Sherlock had threatened to use whatever means necessary to get Jim to call off his shooters. The second he’d promised that while he might be on the side of angels, he should never be mistaken for one.

_“No, you’re me. You’re me. Thank you, Sherlock Holmes. Thank you. Bless you.”_

Those words had haunted Sherlock for all these years, but never had they made as much sense as they did right now.

“But he thought he’d backed you into a corner. He wanted you to die from the fall. He was trying to kill you,” John argued.

_Or trying to see what I was made of. Testing me, to see if I was up to the task of taking on the professor. And apparently, he believed I was._

“He was trying to kill you,” John repeated.

“He knew I would find a way out.” Sherlock nodded to Mycroft. “He knew _we_ would. He knew I would then go after his network just as Jim knew Mycroft wouldn’t just allow his body to be destroyed without thoroughly searching it. He was counting on Mycroft finding the chip just as he was counting on me finding the professor. But the professor was better at hiding than Jim gave him credit for.” He looked at Mycroft. “Just as Mycroft is better at lying than I gave him credit for. How long have you known about the professor?”

Mycroft frowned and took a prolonged sip of his tea before setting it down. “Not as long as I would have liked.”

“But long enough.” Sherlock’s anger rose. “You’ve been lying about everything all this time. Do you realize what you’ve done? You’ve made everything worse, harder than it has to be. Don’t you see that? If you’d only trusted me, leaned on me, none of this would have had to happen. Billy wouldn’t be dead, and Molly wouldn’t have been taken.”

Mycroft glared at him. “Don’t you see, Sherlock? This isn’t a game, and it certainly isn’t one of your little cases. It’s not just people’s lives at stake. It’s our country. It’s the world. And how was I supposed to trust you with something like this? You? A drug addict who takes cases in order to distract himself from shooting up? A drug addict who can’t keep himself off the sauce no matter how many friends he surrounds himself with or how many times he’s reduced his mother to tears or torn his family asunder? A drug addict who, as I remember, was heading off to a death sentence in Eastern Europe.”

Sherlock jumped to his feet, returning the glare. “You could have saved me from that.”

“Why should I? I told you to leave Magnussen alone. I told you I had him. But you didn’t trust me, did you? You didn’t leave it alone, did you? No, you drugged me, stole my laptop, and then proceeded to murder the man in cold blood in full view of a dozen witnesses. There are rules in the world, Sherlock. Like it or not, those rules must be obeyed. Otherwise, there are consequences. You are not above that.”

The ramifications of everything hit Sherlock with the weight of a demolished building coming down all at once. He’d known Mycroft hadn’t helped him, that his brother’s personal code wouldn’t allow him to intercede in Sherlock’s fate. But this? This was so much larger than that. _A punishment? That’s what this is? A betrayal for a perceived betrayal?_

Sherlock stepped on the coffee table as he went after Mycroft, uncaring that the tea service and cups fell into disarray. He needed to get to this smug cock, and this was the most direct route. Mycroft just sat there, a know-it-all sneer permanently etched into his features. That only propelled Sherlock on. He grabbed his brother by the collar of his shirt, jerking the older man to his feet.

“You’ve known this was coming for that long? Then you didn’t just suspect what he would do, you’ve known. You knew who he would come after, what his game would be. You could have prevented it all.”

“No, Sherlock.” Mycroft shoved him back, jerking away from his grip. “ _You_ could have if you’d actually listened to me. You _never_ listen to me. I told you that sentiment would bring about your downfall. How often have I warned you of that? Partnering with John was bad enough, but taking on that pathologist as well? Dear God, a girlfriend? What were you thinking? I tried to warn you. I offered to take her away, but you wouldn’t listen. You moved her in and then proclaimed to everyone that she was carnally yours. You may as well have painted a target on her yourself. You want to blame someone? Look in the mirror.”

Sherlock could see it all now. He’d never been particularly close to Mycroft. Circumstances had made that all but impossible. _But this?_ This was unthinkable. The betrayal he felt was strong, stronger than anything he’d ever allowed himself to feel. _How did I not see this?_ How much had sentiment blinded him? _And what will happen now?_

It was then that he fully comprehended his brother’s duplicity extended to far worse territories.  “You didn’t just know he would come after her. You _counted_ on it. In fact, you needed him to show his face. So, you used her as bait. You knew I would never agree to such a scheme. _That’s_ the real reason you didn’t say anything—no matter how many hints you think you gave me. You needed bait, and Molly Hooper fit the bill. You bastard!” His fist flew before any thought could enter his mind as to why he should stop it. He pummeled Mycroft twice before the older man fell back against the daybed and John grabbed him around the waist to pull him away.

Sherlock fought against his friend’s steel-like grip. “And if she dies?” he shouted at Mycroft. “What then? What kind of monster are you to send an innocent into the clutches of a psychopath like the professor? What about those precious rules you’re so fond of? What do they say about that?”

Mycroft, pulling a handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers, dabbed at his now-bleeding and swollen lip. He glanced at the blood-spotted linen a moment before he looked back at him. “Oh, Sherlock. After all of this, you still don’t understand my methods? She knew.”

Sherlock froze. John’s arms fell away as the blond man turned to face Mycroft, aghast.

“What?” Sherlock panted, barely able to get his breath. “What are you talking about?”

“Molly knew,” Mycroft said, “because I warned her.”


	52. Welcome Back, Molly Hooper

“I just … I just don’t … What?” That last bit of news seemed to finish John off. Shaking his head, he collapsed on the sofa. “You told Molly she was going to be kidnapped? What?” He held up his hands when Mycroft started to answer his question. “You know what? I don’t want to know. This is screwed up—even for a Holmes. If this kind of brain twisting is what comes from being highly intelligent, I’d rather be an idiot.”

Sherlock wasn’t fairing much better in digesting this latest bombshell. He felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach by a horse. Twice. First, his brother’s betrayal and now this? His mind raced back to that time with Molly, all they’d said to each other, all her actions leading up to them heading off to the ball. At no point had she given any indication that she knew or feared she was going to be kidnapped. Sherlock would have been impressed if he weren’t already furious and bothered.

Of course, he’d picked up on her terror. One would have had to be a moron to miss that. But as she’d been anxious since the beginning of all this Moriarty business, he’d naturally assumed it had to do with that. Now, he had no choice but to reconsider that notion. Releasing a heavy breath, he closed his eyes for a moment. There was so much to absorb, so many deductions and theories he’d devised based on incorrect information that he now needed to reassess. He wanted to tell Mycroft and John to leave him alone so he could do just that, but there was simply no time. Molly’s life was on the line, and there was still so much information to learn.

Opening his eyes, he looked at his brother and said, “Start at the very beginning of this sordid tale of yours and—unless you’d like a bloody nose to match your lip—I wouldn’t leave anything out.”

Mycroft dabbed at his lip, frowned down at the blood he’d collected on the handkerchief, and said, “I first uncovered the professor when I … collected … Jim Moriarty for questioning.”

“And when was that?” John asked.

“After our associations with Ms. Adler ended. It became clear that he was seeking my attention, and I thought it best to bring him in so I could ascertain some information.”

“And Jim told you about the professor?” John asked.

Mycroft’s trademark sneer returned. “Of course not. He said little, actually. Most of what he did say revolved around his growing obsession with Sherlock. But there were other things he said, things that didn’t add up once he was dead. I, of course, had heard whispers concerning the professor over the years, but I could never get anything definitive on him.”

Sherlock glared. “Then why did you dismiss the idea of the professor as impossible when I first brought it to you on my return to London?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Because the last thing I needed was you on some kind of witch hunt for a person I wasn’t even sure existed. You know how obsessive you can get. There was a terror threat against London at the time. That had to take priority.”

“But when I had solved that? Or when you proved the professor did, in fact, exist? Because you obviously did. Why not tell me then?” Sherlock said, his fists clenching at his sides.

Mycroft’s sneer deepened. “You were deep in wedding plans and ‘not getting involved’ at that point, remember? Besides, it wasn’t something that needed to concern you. I knew I could handle it. I don’t always involve you in my business.” He paused, taking in Sherlock’s fists. “Which, given your propensity for sentiment and emotional outbursts, brother dear, is most decidedly a good thing.”

“Which translates to you wanted to get your hands on the microchip without my interference or knowledge.” Sherlock shook his head in disgust. “Because you could then do with it as you pleased. Your government-issued nickname really does suit you, _Ice Man_.”

John butted in before violence could occur. “Can we get to the part where Mycroft warned Molly she was going to get kidnapped? And, Mycroft, can you please tell me you planned ahead and have a way for us to locate and retrieve her?”

Mycroft straightened in his seat. “Of course. Following the evening when I came to Baker Street and you all rushed off in search of Earl Denton, I stayed behind because I felt a discussion with Molly was warranted.”

“ _Molly_?” Sherlock scoffed. “She’s Molly now, is she?”

“She requested that I call her that. I am only abiding by her wishes.”

Sherlock grunted, seething.

“My purpose in speaking to her was two-fold. First, I wished to inform her of Sherlock’s intentions towards her.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. “And what do you know of my intentions?”

“It’s obvious Molly is the kind of woman who desires a full romantic relationship with all that it entails. It is just as obvious that this is something for which you are incapable.”

“And you think I didn’t tell her that?” Sherlock shook his head. “Or that she wouldn’t have otherwise been aware of this already? Molly Hooper is more intelligent and perceptive than you can imagine, Mycroft.”

“Yes,” the older man said, clearing his throat uncomfortably, “that was what Molly indicated to me. In fact, I believe her exact words were that she was aware of your inability to love her back and was, in fact, using you ‘for sex.’”

John’s mouth fell open in surprise. Sherlock laughed. _Good for you, Molly_ , he thought. The pride and respect he had for the petite pathologist blossomed in his chest. He would have paid big money to see Mycroft’s face when she’d said that.

Sherlock grinned cockily. “Good to know I’m not the only man Molly Hooper keeps on his toes.”

“It was a crass answer, Sherlock.”

“She meant it to be, Mycroft. It was her way of telling you to mind your own business. A sentiment I share wholeheartedly with my girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend?” Mycroft asked, paling.

Sherlock nodded, aware of what such an overt claim would mean to Mycroft and not caring one iota. “ _Girlfriend_. So, after she set you straight, what else did you discuss?”

Mycroft cleared his throat again. “I informed her I knew Moriarty planned to kidnap her, to be used as leverage against you. I offered to have her taken away. I assured her I could keep her safe and out of play until everything was over.”

“And?” John asked.

But Sherlock didn’t need to be told. He knew what Molly would have said.

“She asked who I thought would be kidnapped instead. I told her I believed Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Watson, or the child would be likely secondary targets.”

“And so she volunteered to be kidnapped.” Sherlock gritted his teeth. “You, brother, are far more reprehensible than I have ever given you credit for.”

“I gave her a choice.”

“No, you manipulated her into making the decision you wanted her to make. You knew she was going to ask that question. You already had your answer ready. You knew she would never want to see Mrs. Hudson, Mary, or Abby put in danger, that she would gladly put herself in harm’s way instead. It’s what she does.”

Mycroft insisted, “I offered her sanctuary.”

 “No, you offered her a way to be of assistance.” Sherlock folded his hands in his lap, needing a cigarette more fiercely than he could ever remember. The conversation he’d had with Molly regarding Mycroft was suddenly starting to make incredible sense. “She asked you why you hadn’t told me of your big plan, didn’t she? And that’s when you fed her that cock and bull about how I never ask for help and how worried you are that I’m in over my head. Then, you brought down the curtain by reminding her of my penchant for falling into drugs, missing things, and becoming distracted. You gave her just enough information, fed right into her need to help, and used her love for me to manipulate her into being a good little soldier for you.” Sherlock shook his head in disdain. “Well, Mycroft, with brothers like you, who needs arch enemies?”

“Sherlock, you must understand—”

Sherlock held up a hand. “Just get to the part where we rescue her. If I hear another word about what you offered and how she volunteered, I fear I won’t be able to restrain myself from strangling you where you sit.”

Mycroft’s lips flicked ever so slightly as if he were pouting. Honestly, Sherlock didn't care which it actually was. But, seeming to realize he’d importuned his brother’s patience far enough, Mycroft said, “As it happens, I have a man on the inside.”

 

**—RE—**

 

“What have you done?”

“What I was told.”

“And yet, I somehow doubt that.”

Molly heard the voices but didn’t shift her head to see who was speaking. _Why bother?_ Instead, she stared off into the distance, unable to hang on to a distinctive thought or feeling. She was mentally floating, blissfully numb and disconnected from everything. If the room was still cold, she wasn’t aware of it. She lay, silent and still, on the bed, hands over her head. She wasn’t hungry or thirsty or in need of a wee or even able to think of a single reason to do anything but just continue to lie prone as she was.

“How long has she been this way?”

“She was carrying on, screeching at the top of her lungs, and throwing everything at me from the second I first came down here—like she went barmy or something. What would you have me do? I had to calm her down.”

“By handcuffing her to the bed? Are you telling me she’s been like this for two days?”

The words penetrated, but their meanings took a little longer. Molly looked up. Her hands, which she casually noted were indeed handcuffed to the metal rail at the head of her bed, had bruises and scrapes along the wrists, palms, and elbows, but they didn’t sting or hurt. _Hmm._ As disconnected as she felt from those limbs, they could have belonged to someone else. Likewise, her body showed no signs of discomfort from maintaining this rigid position for so long. _Interesting._

Molly lolled her head away from the voices, studying the ridges, indentations, and imperfections that made up the gray, concrete wall. The ridges looked like couples dancing. _What kind of dancing is it?_ _Waltzes._ Those thoughts floated away like untethered balloons and weren’t replaced with anything else as she breathed and looked and just beatifically existed in this lovely void of nothingness.

“And you haven’t bothered to feed her in all this time?”

“I brought her food. She shrieked and kicked and bit me when I tried to feed her. I was afraid—”

“Is that where the bruise on her chin came from? Your _fear_? Of her?”

“You don’t understand.”

“Of course I do. You’re an idiot.”

A blond man came into view, his hands running softly over her jaw. “Hello, darling.” Molly didn’t respond, didn’t even bother to keep eye contact with him. He looked over at the man across from him. “How long has she been like this?”

“Eerily quiet, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Since I hit her. It knocked her out. When she came to, she didn’t say anything. Hasn’t said a word since. That was sometime yesterday, I think.”

The blond turned back to her, a frown now creasing his features. “Don’t you worry,” he said. “We’ll have you right as rain in a bit.” He was sitting next to her, talking to her, touching her. Molly didn’t want to register that, but she couldn’t help it. His hand was warm, almost hot against her icy skin. The blissful numbness retreated a bit more in the wake of this unmistakable feeling. This stranger turned her head to inspect it. Like feeling returning to a deadened limb, a hoarse rumble of emotion welled within her. One thing became clear very fast.

“Don’t touch me,” she snarled, jerking away from him.

“There she goes again. Watch yourself,” the other man warned.

But the blond sitting next to her merely grinned down at her and said, “Welcome back, Molly Hooper.”

Molly tried to pull her legs up against her stomach, intending to kick him away, but that was when she became aware of something else.

“Shackled her legs, too?” the blond man asked. “Really? You needed this much assistance in containing a woman this size?” He shook his head. “You’re not just an idiot. You’re pathetic.”

“I told you. She kicked me. You best be glad I shackled her. Otherwise, that wildcat would have knocked you down. She might look small, but she packs quite a punch. I got scratches all over me from her. You see this gash across my cheek, don’t you?”

“I see that you were given an assignment, an assignment you have spectacularly botched.”

“It’s not my fault. This isn’t my job. It’s Bruce’s. I don’t know why the master always has to take that big lug with him wherever he goes.”

“Now you’re questioning the master?”

There was a pregnant pause and an audible gulp. “O-o-of course not. I just—”

“You’re lucky the master isn’t here to see what you’ve done with his prize.”

“Prize? Her?” There was an uneasy laugh. “You know what he’s planning. She’s no prize.”

The blond got to his feet. “Give me the keys.”

“Why? You can’t mean to take the shackles off. I think it’s plain how dangerous she is.”

“It’s a good thing no one pays you to think then, isn’t it? Give me the keys. I assure you that when I make my report to the master, he will be most _displeased_ by your level of service.”

“But I did my best. I know you’re the master’s new second, but you can’t—”

“I can, and I will. Now give me the keys and be quiet.”

There was a sound. Then, the cuffs around her wrists tightened slightly before falling away. Molly reacted without thought. One moment her body was lax and the next she’d propelled herself at this stranger, tearing, clawing, and beating with her hands as she could reach him. An inhuman scream sounded in her ears, but she wasn’t sure who was making that noise. Was there an animal around?

Her strength depleted quickly. That became apparent as the blond easily subdued her, pressing her back on the bed and holding her arms down on either side of her head. He looked down at her. “Calm down. Don’t you see I’m trying to assist you?”

He had gray eyes. Steel gray eyes beneath brown brows, porcelain skin, a patrician nose, high cheekbones, and firm lips. Meena would have called him “brutally handsome.” Molly had never understood that phrase. Now, seeing him, she did. The animal noise sounded again, a low, keening reverberation that made her ears ache. The cold was unbearable, and the spikes of feeling returning to her arms felt like a never-ending series of small knife cuts. All of these thoughts, snippets of information, and sensory perceptions filtered in as Molly came back fully to herself with a jerk. It was like that first, painful breath after one’s had all the air knocked out of their lungs.

“Stop screaming, darling. No one is going to hurt you.”

That’s when she realized the noises she’d been hearing had come from her. Silence prevailed immediately. The blond smiled, his thin, striking features flooding with charm and affability.

Of course, she didn’t buy it for a second. “Release me,” she said.

“If I do,” he countered, “will you behave yourself? Gunther here says you’ve been very, very naughty.”

She glanced quickly at the shorter, portlier, dark-haired man behind him and nodded. Her would-be rescuer moved quickly, unfastening the shackles around her ankles, which she noted had attached her to the other end of the bed.

“There,” he said.

Slowly, Molly pushed herself into a sitting position, watching this man closely. She wasn’t sure what he wanted. Fear pushed the last vestiges of the idyllic disorientation that had been her companion for far too long. She missed it, but, at the same time, she feared its return. Molly was pretty sure that it represented insanity—or as close to that mental condition as she ever wanted to be. She knew the trauma of witnessing William’s brutal death had pushed her there. That coupled with a sheer fury and unwillingness to be a pawn in this game anymore. She didn’t care what Mycroft had said. Liberation wasn’t coming. No, she would be as dead as William before this was done. She thought she’d made her peace with that before, but that was before she saw death happen right before her eyes. Moreover, it was before she saw death delivered at the hands of Dr. Moriarty. She hadn’t ever seen true evil until that moment—or in the hours that took place after that. _No, I won’t think about that. I can’t. That is the surest path back to insanity._

A shiver of fear unwillingly ran through her. She closed her eyes and concentrated for a few minutes on just breathing. _Calm. Remain calm._ No, she couldn’t control the professor. She doubted anyone could. No matter how clever Sherlock was, how much faith she had in him, or how much Mycroft had planned all this out, it wouldn’t make a difference. He didn’t know the professor like Molly now did. She was dead. The only thing that could be controlled was when she would die, possibly how that death could occur, and how much damage she could do to Moriarty’s plan in the meantime.

The unpleasant tinge of stale urine hit her nostrils along the same time that the aches, bruises, welts, and scratches on her body made themselves known. Her dress was wet, ripped, and uncomfortably sticking to her back. The bones in her legs, arms, and pelvis felt as if they’d been misaligned or stretched in the wrong way for too long. Her back throbbed. Her hands were trembling. She couldn’t stop them, couldn’t stop feeling any of it.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?” the blond asked.

Molly darted another look at the man behind him, the one she clearly remembered tangling with. He had a mean right hook and always smelled of garlic and sweat.

The blond caught her action. “He won’t touch you. I swear.” He held out a hand. “Let me help you, darling.”

Molly ignored this as she struggled to her feet. It was the hardest thing she’d ever had to do as her muscles wouldn’t seem to cooperate or hold her weight, but she managed it, locking her knees in order to remain standing. But this was a temporary solution at best. Sooner or later, she was going to have to walk and that seemed nearly impossible. Still, she was determined not to be touched. Swaying dangerously, she managed to glare at her newest captor head on, her chin defiantly tilted at him. How much would it take to anger him and how fast could she get it done?

Instead of getting angry, his smile deepened. “You’re quite an interesting woman. Do you know that?”

She smiled in return before replying, “Fuck you.”

Her expletive sapped the rest of her energy, her knees weakened, and she felt herself collapsing. Just as she’d registered that, the blond swooped forward and caught her. He swung upwards, her enfeebled form cradled in his arms. Molly wanted to scream at him to stop touching her, to release her at once, but her head swam, making speech impossible. _Oh, God. I’m going to faint._

Just before she felt the cloud of darkness threatening overhead envelop her, the man holding her chuckled and said, “No wonder he wants you.”


	53. The Noble Cause

Molly hadn’t dozed while being carried since she was a child, but she would never forget the feelings it evoked. Safety and security. She’d always felt protected in her father’s arms. Even as the last vestiges of her drowsiness fell away, she kept her eyes closed as she instinctively snuggled closer to the strong, male chest and inhaled, expecting the musky scent of her father’s aftershave mixed with sweat, grease, and the slightest hint of the pint or two he’d had out with the boys down the pub.

Instead, she got a light, citrusy scent mixed with a thick, liqueur-like richness. It hit her like a pail of cold water, bringing with it the starkness of her current situation. Eyes flew open. Body tensed. Mouth gaping.

“Please don’t scream, darling,” he said. “I fear my ears would never recover.”

The blond man. She’d fainted. He was carrying her. _Remain calm._ “Put me down then,” she said.

“In a mo’,” he said, shifting her in his arms as he gracefully maneuvered them through a doorjamb and into what seemed to be a bedroom. Moving from the gloomy darkness of the hallway into this room was like walking into a ray of sunshine. The room was quaint and open with walls painted a buttery yellow, a large white canopy bed against the far wall, a small dresser and mirror adjacent to this, and an oblong table with two chairs placed in the very middle of the room. A shut door was situated next to the dresser, but Molly didn’t have time to wonder what was in there before she was carefully set on her feet.

“There,” he said before turning back to the door where two men dressed in black stood like sentinels. “Are they ready for her?”

“Yes, sir. Do you need anything else from us?”

The blond turned back to Molly and smiled before he answered them. “Yes. Dinner, I think, would be nice.”

His eyebrow quirked at her in obvious invitation. Molly frowned and looked away.

“Right away, sir,” the men said in unison before leaving out of the door and shutting it behind them. There was a decided click, which told her it was now locked.

The blond threw his hands up like a game show model demonstrating a prize. “What do you think? Much better than the dungeon, yes?”

“A gilded cage is still a cage,” she said.

He chuckled but gave no further response to her cheek. Instead, he pulled a gold case from his pocket, procured a cigarette, lit it, and took a long drag. “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”

“No,” Molly said.

Part of her had hoped this man would be part of Mycroft’s rescue plan. As Mycroft had told her little about that plan except for the code word someone would use in order to let her know they could trust them, it was still possible he could be. Her gut instinct, however, said otherwise.

The barely attached shoulder of her gown gave way, sliding down her arm. She hastily grabbed it, pressing it and the loosened bodice in place against her chest. The back of the gown was shredded in places, which called the overall stability of the gown further into question.

The blond man seemed to ignore this as he walked over to the other door. Opening it, he said something in a language Molly couldn’t decipher.

Two women filed out. Both of Asian descent, their faces were pale, their statures were lithe and diminutive, and their eyes saw nothing but the blond man. They took turns replying to him, speaking in dulcet, deferential tones while they nodded and smiled.

He took another long drag on his cigarette before turning back to Molly. “Go with them. They will see you cleaned up.”

Her eyes darted at the women before looking back at him.

“No one is going to hurt you, darling. Go on.” He lazily looked her over for a moment before meeting her gaze. His smile was relaxed and confident. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”

Molly wasn’t sure if that was a promise or a threat. She debated using this as an opportunity to anger him further, to push him to hurt her. But she was so exhausted, and she somehow doubted that obstinacy at this point would get her nothing but humiliation. Besides, after so many days in this dress, she was desperate for a bath. So, she shuffled into the new room, which turned out to be tiled lavatory.

As the women came in after her, the blond man added, “Just so you know, Jun and Reiko will be happy to assist you in your bath, but they won’t help you escape. Not only are they loyal to their master, but they’re unable to understand a word of English. Hard luck there.”

Molly slammed the door at this. When male laughter sounded on the other side, she gritted her teeth and ignored it. Clucking like mother hens and speaking in their foreign tongue, the women approached her and began tugging at the dress. The zip at the back was quickly loosed, but getting the garment off took a bit of doing. Parts of the back were sticking to her skin and removing it caused her to wince and yelp. Finally, she was free and the remains of the once-beautiful dress slumped to the floor. The small clinks of metal hitting the tile reminded her of something she’d been hiding. She swept down and picked up the necklace and earrings she’d been concealing in her bodice since the night of her capture. Molly knew she was likely to lose them but had still thought she should try to hang on to them if she could. After all, they were Mrs. Hudson’s and she would like to return them to the landlady at some point. Of course, now that felt like a ridiculous and impossible feat, but Molly still grabbed the pieces of jewelry and held them against her chest, daring the women to try to take them. They just sent her brief looks, shrugged, and went about their business. So, there she was, standing in nothing but her unmentionables and holding jewelry like it was a lifeline.

The stench of urine, sweat, and body odor pervaded everything, making Molly want to die of mortification. The women, however, didn’t seem to notice as they stripped the rest of the dirty underclothes from her. Once nude, Molly happily shuffled over to the steaming tub in the center of the room. Trying to lift her leg to get inside, she was surprised to find herself too weak to manage it. One of the women came over to her, her short, pixie cut shining in the overhead lighting. Molly accepted the help. Hissing and moaning in pain, she slowly and methodically submerged herself up to her chest in the hot water. Throughout it all, she managed to hold the jewelry high so it wouldn’t get wet and wondered how she would ever manage to bathe herself without putting it down.

The women exchanged some kind of dialogue as one gathered up her soiled garments and stuffed them into a plastic bag and the other collected a small stool and a cadre of bathing supplies from a nearby counter. Setting her stool and supplies in front of the tub, the woman held a hand out for the jewelry.

Molly shook her head, holding it high against her chest.

The woman spoke again, pointing at the sink and the counters. There was much nodding and gesturing as she demonstrated that she simply wanted to store the jewelry there until after Molly’s bath. Ultimately, knowing they could take the jewelry from her by force if they wanted, Molly handed it over. The woman returned, took a seat on her stool, and began to wet and soap a flannel.

Molly, who had not been bathed fully by another person since she was a small child, wanted to protest this treatment, but simply didn’t have the physical or mental strength to do so. The hot water had stolen the pitiful amount she had. So, she sat there like a mute while the woman gently soaped up her body, rinsed it, and soaped it again. When she was done, Molly was so clean her skin squeaked.

“Thank you,” she murmured to the woman.

Apparently, her appreciation crossed the language barrier because the woman smiled and nodded at her. “Are you Jun or Reiko?’ Molly asked.

She had to repeat herself a few times before the woman understood. Then, with a wide smile, she pointed to herself and said, “Jun.”

“Nice to meet you, Jun,” Molly said, pointing to herself. “I’m Molly.”

“Mo-wee?” Jun repeated.

Molly nodded and smiled. “Close enough.”

The other woman, clearly Reiko, returned, calling something to Jun before she placed the clean clothing she carried on the counter. There was a flurry of hand-waving before Jun blushed and spit out what seemed to be some kind of apology. She looked at Molly, pointed at Molly’s head, and held up a cup, mimicking pouring it over her head.

“You want to wash my hair?” Molly asked.

Jun kept rattling words at her; so Molly nodded. Jun went to work, untangling the braids Mrs. Hudson had fashioned. It felt like that had happened years ago instead of days. Jun’ patient fingers soon had the braids—which Molly knew could have easily turned into dreadlocks—unplaited. Her hair was then washed, rinsed, and conditioned in quick form.

Reiko had a wide, thirsty towel ready when Molly emerged from the tub, wrapping it around her charge. Molly was then seated on the very stool Jun had just used while her hair was carefully detangled, brushed, dried, and styled by Reiko into a tight French braid. Jun, meanwhile, slathered her with lotion lightly perfumed with cherry blossoms and honey. Next, she applied salve and some bandages to the wounds on Molly’s back, fussing to herself as she went. At last, the two women helped her to feet, assisting her into some pants that Molly knew she would have fallen over trying to put on herself.

Before Molly knew it, she was dressed in a gossamer pink nightgown that fell to her ankles and left her back exposed down to her waist. A matching silk robe was added, which covered the back as well as the gown’s thin straps and the fact that Molly wasn’t wearing a bra. The women talked enthusiastically as they ushered her over to the room’s lone mirror. Molly looked at the stranger before her. She looked wane and pale and tired. There was a dark purple bruise taking up most of the left side of her chin and the swelling that accompanied this made her bottom lip look fat. But it was what she was now wearing that most worried her. Clearly, this was how the blond man had ordered her dressed. But for what purpose? Was she now to be raped? She closed her eyes, trying to regulate her breathing even as panic welled within her. _You can’t think if you don’t calm yourself. Thinking is what is going to assist you. Not panicking. You have a plan. You just need to stick to it._

Jun returned the jewelry to Molly, who quickly stuffed it into the pocket of her robe and thanked the women profusely. They escorted her to the bedroom again where she found the blond man seated at the table now set with identical plates of food and two glasses of wine. He’d changed clothes as well and was now dressed in a pair of black trousers; a crisp, white dress shirt open at the collar; a gray vest; and black shoes. His blond hair was wet and slicked back, indicating that she wasn’t the only newly cleaned person in the room.

Jun and Reiko spoke to him, waving their hands at her. He replied and, with a nod, they saw themselves to the large door and let themselves out. A click told her the door was locked behind them.

“Well, don’t you look gorgeous, darling,” the man said, holding his arms out. “Here we are. Alone at last. I must say, you look decidedly better for your bath.” He took a careful sniff. “And is that jasmine I smell?”

Molly turned away and headed for the bed, sitting on the side of it. Whatever his plan was, she certainly wasn’t going to cooperate. The bath had refreshed her enough to be sure she had at least some energy to fight him off—at least for a little while.

“Why don’t you join me, Molly? I have the most succulent beef you have ever tasted and all the fresh made bread you can stand.” He looked down before adding. “And my favorite, jacket potatoes with cheese!”

“No,” she said.

He paused. “I could have the men return and force you to sit with me. Then, they could take turns stuffing the food in your pretty, little mouth. What would you prefer?”

“I said no,” she repeated, more defiantly.

The blond scrutinized her for a moment and then sighed, heavy and hard. “You’re right. I wouldn’t do that. Not my style.” He waved her over. “Come now. I’ve no interest in hurting you. I just want to see you fed. I promise the food has not been poisoned.”

She cocked her head to the side as she studied him. “Why do you care if I eat? Your master is going to kill me anyway.”

“Because you are a lady and I am tasked with taking care of you. My mother raised me to always act like a gentleman around ladies. She might be dead, but I do so hate to let her down. Besides, you need to eat if you’re going to have the strength to deal with him when he returns.”

Molly turned away, crossing her arms over her chest, and steeling herself for the fight that was sure to come.

“Did you really think starving yourself, picking a fight with Gunther, or telling me off was going to get you killed and thus undo your part in the professor’s game? You think that’s going to save your precious Sherlock? Not a well thought out plan, if you’ll allow me to say so.”

Molly didn’t respond. What was there to say? Looking at it that way, it _was_ a foolish plan.

“Gunther, I’ll give you, is a complete imbecile,” the blond continued, “but he likes his head where it sits too much for him to do you serious injury. I assure you Dr. Moriarty won’t be pleased that his prize has been damaged, but his temper would know no bounds if you were to die. As for me, I’m not a man who enjoys violence. So, you’re as safe as can be.”

“You abhor violence and yet you choose to associate with the likes of Moriarty?”

The blond pondered this for a moment before he said, “Call it a noble cause.”

This caught her attention. “A noble cause? What kind of noble cause?”

 He gave her a wry smile. “If you want me to answer your questions, Molly Hooper, you’re going to have to eat with me.”

Molly considered this before finally relenting. When she sat opposite him, he handed her a linen napkin. She dutifully dropped this into her lap and looked down at her plate. Strips of rare roast beef were lined up and covered in a mushroom gravy. Next to this was a jacket potato topped with pats of melting butter cheese, and a mound of green beans sautéed with what appeared to be garlic. Pulling back the napkins from a nearby basket, the blond presented her with a thick slice of homemade brown bread, which she took.

“Help yourself to the butter,” he said, passing her a small crock.

When she looked about for a knife, he added, “You’ll have to use your spoon. It’s a bit unrefined, but you seem like the kind of woman who would be dangerous with a butter knife.”

She used a spoon to spread on the butter before devouring the slice in four large bites. It was the best thing she’d ever eaten.

The blond chuckled. “There,” he said. “That’s better, isn’t it, Molly?”

She swallowed the last bite of bread, licking a bit of smeared butter from her swollen, lower lip. She winced at the pain it caused before asking, “And your name is?”

“Call me Henry, darling.”

Molly picked up her fork and used it to spear a green bean. “So, you’re Moriarty’s second. What does that mean exactly?”

“Whenever he is away, I’m in charge.”

“Then why was Gunther there?”

“He was left responsible for your care. I’ve been running errands and only just returned myself this morning. When I found out what Gunther had done, I took pains to fix the situation. If not, you would have been decidedly worse off. Perhaps even dead if Dr. Moriarty had stayed away another few days. You should thank me.”

Molly contemplated a few seconds before murmuring, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

She ignored this in favor of her own questions. “Errands? For your master, you mean?”

He nodded. “Of course.”

“What kind of errands?”

“Next question, please.”

“Where are we exactly? Still in Britain?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that either.”

“What can you tell me?”

He cut into his own beef and examined it a bit before inserting it into his mouth. Chewing happily, he swallowed and said, “Very little, I’m afraid. But I promise to answer any question I can. How about that?”

“Why would you do that?”

“I’m curious.”

“About what?

“I’ve seen all the recordings on you. You are a conundrum, Molly Hooper. On paper, you’re so dreadfully tedious. A pathologist who lives alone in a modest flat with a cat. And, you were so uninteresting the cat ran away, didn’t he? Honestly, the most exciting thing about you is your association with Sherlock Holmes.” He leaned closer as if to impart a secret. “In fact, you’ve carried quite a _tendre_ for the consulting detective for years, haven’t you? Then, after nearly an eternity of waiting and hoping … BOOM … you become his flatmate and girlfriend in the space of a few months. You _must_ tell me how you did it.” His eyes ran over her lightly, pausing ever so long at her bosom. “Clearly he’s not a breast man.”

“I thought you were a gentleman,” Molly said, buttering a second slice of bread.

“I said I _try_ to be a gentleman, darling.” He winked. “I didn’t say I always succeed at it.”

Molly hated how her cheeks were flaming. She focused on the bread, taking a bite and swallowing before she spoke again. “You shouldn’t believe rumors. People are always trying to pair Sherlock off with people. There are even tales which say he’s more than just business partners with John Watson.”

Henry laughed. “Sherlock is many things, but not gay.”

“And you know this how?”

“Call it a gift for knowing. Besides, I’ve seen the recordings, remember, Molly? I know the truth about you and Sherlock and the depths of your relationship—even if he doesn’t always prefer to call it by that exact terminology.”

Molly dropped her bread as the full implications of his statement hit her. “There were cameras in 221B?”

“The professor does his research. He likes to be quite thorough.”

Molly felt her face heat in mortification as she imagined all the things that had been seen and heard on those recordings. “And is that what all this is? You want to recreate the recordings with you as stand-in for Sherlock?”

Henry paled and leaned back from the table, seeming offended by this. “Of course not. As I told you, you are quite safe from me. I’ve never forced anyone to my bed. If you end up there, darling, it will be by your own choice. I’m a gentleman, remember?”

“A true gentleman wouldn’t have brought up the recordings at all, much less have watched them as _thoroughly_ as you evidently have.”

“A true lady wouldn’t have tried to lie about her relationship with Sherlock Holmes,” he countered. “But I suppose you were only trying to protect him. Your loyalty to your master does you credit, darling.”

“He’s not my master.”

“Isn’t he?”

“No.”

“Interesting. You believe yourself Sherlock’s equal then?”

“Sherlock is my superior when it comes to overall intelligence.”

“So, you concede—” Henry began.

Molly interrupted, “But he is my inferior in other areas. Then, there are many areas where we are peers in every way. So, no, Sherlock is not my master. He is my colleague, my friend, my lover, and my equal. You may choose to follow a master, Henry, but I do not.”

“Dr. Moriarty is not my master.”

“But he made you his second?” Molly picked up her fork and stabbed at her potato, watching the melted butter run over the sides and onto her plate. “How does that happen if he’s not your master? Being master is everything to a man like him.”

“I am loyal, a quality the professor esteems far higher than anything else.”

“Loyal to your master, you mean?”

“He’s not my master.” Henry’s hand slammed down on the table at this.

It was Molly’s turn to grin. She’d broken through his façade of charm and humor. “Does Dr. Moriarty know this?”

“Yes.”

“And how long have you been with him?”

“A decade.”

“But why? Why pledge your loyalty to such a man?”

“I have my reasons for aligning with him.”

“The noble cause you spoke of earlier?”

He nodded, raising his wine glass for a sip. “Indeed.”

“And what is this noble cause?”

Henry swirled the wine before he answered. “Revenge. Someone I loved very much was killed, you see. An innocent whose only crime was in loving me.” He stared down at the deep burgundy liquid before downing it all in one, quick motion and slamming the glass on the table. “The professor has promised me revenge. So, I follow him. I have certain … gifts … which assist him in his plans. In return for my service, he will use his superior intellect to help me with mine.”

“Ten years and he hasn’t made good on his promise yet? What makes you think he will?”

Henry’s eyes glittered dangerously. “He will. Soon.”

Molly shifted her gaze away from him, uneasy. “Revenge isn’t noble.”

“It is in this case.” His words brooked no argument.

“And me? I’m innocent in all of this. What have I done to deserve such treatment? Then there’s William. Dr. Moriarty killed that boy for nothing more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He shot him in the head in cold blood. What have you to say about that?” Molly demanded.

“Everything has its price. It’s for the greater good.”

“It’s murder. Don’t you dare wrap it up in pretty paper and call it something else. Moriarty executed William, and he’ll do the same to me when the time comes. It’ll be murder then, too. A murder _you_ helped with. And, murder may be many things,” she said, throwing her fork down on the table with a loud clatter, “but it will never be noble.”

Henry stared at her, emotion burning behind his eyes. She met his stare. Held it. Let him see the truth of her words. He looked away, as if he couldn’t stand it any longer. With a shuddering breath, he said, “I’m sorry this is happening to you. I wish …”

Molly wasn’t done with her torture. “You wish what?”

He seemed unable to decide on how best to answer. His throat worked, making his Adam’s apple bobbing to and fro. At last, he said, “I must have my revenge. I’ve waited too long, done too much.”

“But, why do you need Moriarty? Why not get your revenge on your own?”

He took out his gold case again, removed a cigarette, and lit it. There was a long drag and a loud exhale of smoke before he replied. “I’m smart, but not smart enough to catch my prey. I need the professor to find the man I am looking for. I need him to get to him. There’s no other way. And when it comes down to it, I'm really not prone to violence. Dr. Moriarty, however, doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty.”

Unwelcome memories pushed their way forward in Molly’s mind, causing her to shudder unwillingly. “Yes,” she clipped, “he particularly thrills in that part.”

His eyes watched her very carefully, a flash of remorse appeared, but was quickly squelched. He took another drag. “Yes, consulting criminal and all that.”

That stumped Molly. “Consulting criminal? I thought that was Jim Moriarty. Not the doctor.”

Henry cocked his head. “Who do you think taught Jim all he knew? He was merely a diamond in the rough before.”

“But how did you meet Dr. Moriarty, Henry? Is there an ad somewhere for something like this? Some online forum for consulting criminals? How does a man who abhors violence find himself a psychopath like Dr. James Moriarty in the first place?”

Henry gave her another wry grin, seemingly unfettered in the least about her slur against his partner/boss, and shrugged. “Simple. He’s my brother.”


	54. The Best Laid Plans

“Brother?” Molly exclaimed, unable to believe what she was hearing. Her mind scrambled, unable to comprehend this new development. “You’re … you’re …”

“James Henry Moriarty.” The man across from her gave a courtly, yet mocking bow of his head. “At your service, ma’am.”

Molly downed her glass of wine in one swallow and then blurted out the first thing that came in her head. “How is that even possible?”

Henry took the time to refill his wineglass and Molly’s. “People have multiple children all the time. Is it really such a shock that the Moriarty clan would include three sons?”

“Are there any others? Perhaps a sister I should be aware of? A second cousin with a grudge?”

Henry gave a crooked grin. “No, just the three boys, I’m afraid. And, unlike my brothers, I choose to go by my middle name. Much like your Sherlock.” He winked in a confident way Molly wasn’t buying for a second. She’d gotten through to him when she’d told him murder wasn’t noble. She knew it.

Henry continued, “Dr. Moriarty—as he calls himself—is the eldest, I’m in the middle, and Jim was the youngest.”

“And you’re all named James?”

“Indeed. James Thomas, James Henry, and James Richard. A bit unorthodox, I’ll grant you. But, then again, we had an unorthodox upbringing.”

Something clicked into place. “Richard? Like Richard Brook?” Molly asked.

Henry pulled out a cigarette and lit it before answering. “Most lies typically conceal a kernel of truth. Plus, Jim’s sense of humor could often be a bit twisted.”

Molly said nothing to this. What could she say? It was all too much to believe, much less absorb. At last, she said, “I don’t understand. How is it possible that you’re related to them? You look nothing alike.”

He took a slow pull on his cigarette. “Genetics are complicated. You, as a scientist, should know that. You and Evan didn’t look that much alike. He favored your paternal grandfather while you look decidedly like your mother.”

His statement was like a hot knife in her stomach, slipping through the skin so easily, but burning her from the inside out. She coolly placed her hand on the table, sliding it up to where she needed it to be. “Don’t talk about Evan.”

“Why?” Henry’s calm façade cracked. “You’re just full of questions about _my_ brothers, aren’t you? Turnabout is fair play, after all. You wish to cast aspersions on _my_ family, label us psychopaths and murderers and, yet, I’m not allowed to bring up your drug-addicted, suicidal older brother? Hardly fair, is it?”

Molly got to her feet, throwing her napkin down on the plate. Turning, she hastened over to the bed and took up residence there.

“What?” Henry prodded. “No further questions? You don’t want to talk about my parents or ask where the Moriarty boys went to school?” With an agitated movement, he crushed the cigarette out on his plate. “Come back over here! I can astound you with stories of my colorful past as the child sandwiched between the coldest, most manipulative man in all of Britain and an emotionally unstable younger sibling while we feast on chocolate cake. Then, you can tell me about the time you found your brother’s body after he deliberately overdosed on heroin. It’ll be fun!”

Molly winced at the unwilling memory this brought to mind. On the side he couldn’t see, she cupped the metal hidden in her palm closer to her hip, readying herself. She’d pushed too far. And, from the way Henry was reacting, his claim of being a Moriarty no longer seemed so impossible.

He rose from the table, taking a moment to down his wine. After slamming the empty glass back on the table, he walked towards her.

Molly looked away to stare at the blank wall in front of her. As the room held no windows, it was easy to track the shadow of his approaching form. She remained as she was, trying not to demonstrate how afraid she truly was.

“Come now, darling. I thought we’d become friends of a sort. Don’t you want to be friends?”

“No,” she said. “I want you to stay away from me.”

He placed himself squarely in front of her. She kept her eyes rooted forward on his chest, refusing to look up at him. The odor of his aftershave, faint and mixed with cigarettes, food, and wine, were repulsive to her. His hand came up, lightly caressing her cheek.

“Molly, Molly. Your fire is so much like hers, and, yet, so different,” he said. “I imagine Sherlock is rarely bored in your presence.”

“You’d be surprised,” she clipped.

His hand slid from her cheek, down her neck, and was descending further when she made her move. It all happened in a flash. She thrust her weapon at his neck, intent on hitting an artery, if possible. Demonstrating keener reflexes than she’d expected, Henry bluntly deflected the blow, grabbed her by the wrists and, shoving her back against the bed, had her pinned down. There was a clink as a metal object hit the concrete floor. They each panted from their exertions, sharing a combative glare.

He said, “Was that a fork you just tried to stab me with?”

She held his stare. “Yes.”

“I see butter knives are not the only utensil that can prove dangerous in your possession.”

“You have no idea.”

He looked at her, in an assessing way, almost reminding her of Sherlock and William. Finally, his expression softened, “Why harm me? I was helping you.”

“You’re on top of me, holding me down after you ordered me dressed in scant clothing, plied me with copious amounts of alcohol, and put me in a bedroom fit for a pre-adolescent girl. What conclusion am I to reach by this? Certainly not that you’re _helping_ me, _James Moriarty_.”

In one, graceful movement, Henry had regained his footing and released her. He said nothing as he returned to the table to take another cigarette. He lit it and took a drag. “I would have you know that I have never raped a woman in my life.”

Molly rubbed her already sore wrists, which were now stinging and throbbing. Her back was on fire. “There’s a first time for everything for a Moriarty, isn’t there?”

“Touché,” he said. He held out the pack to her. “You smoked in uni, didn’t you?”

He really did know everything about her. Molly crossed her arms over herself. “Only first year. Haven’t touched them since.”

“Good girl,” he held the cigarette up, as if scrutinizing the ash on the end. “You know, I would never hurt you, Molly.”

“Perhaps. But you’ll idly stand by while your brother does, won’t you?” She shrugged. “Same thing, really.”

He took another drag and rolled his eyes. “You don’t understand.” He pointed a finger at her. “You, my dear, are a pawn in a much larger game, a game that must play out if I am to get what I want, what I’ve worked ten, long years for.”

Molly wanted to scream at him, plead with him, do anything so she didn’t have to be here anymore. Instinct told her to keep calm and ask questions instead. She was making progress. “Ten years? You said that before when I asked how long you’ve been with Dr. Moriarty. If he’s your brother, haven’t you known him longer than that? Or did you not grow up in the same home?”

He paused, seemingly unsure of what how he should answer. “Something like that. You can say we’ve been in the business together for ten years.”

“How does a man who hates violence go into a business with a man who feeds off of it?”

He took another drag, held it in his lungs and then released it like it was a hard kept secret. “It was his payment. Ten years’ service in return for his assistance in my endeavor.” He gave a gruff, humorless laugh. “He calls it a consultancy fee.”

“But you’re his brother. He wouldn’t just help you due to that connection?”

“Blood may be thicker than water in some circles, darling, but not in our family. After all, it does not assure loyalty.” He caught her look and held it. “As I told you before, loyalty is _everything_ to the professor.” He tore his gaze away, his expression almost broken. “Jim wasn’t loyal.”

“He wasn’t? How wasn’t he loyal?”

As if someone had struck him, Henry blinked and shook his head. “I—We should talk about something else. I’ve already given away too much as it is. He won’t like it if I—“ He shook his head again. “I’ve come so far, Molly. Done so much. You can’t understand, but I wish you would. Have you ever been in love, really in love? People think they are all the time, but it isn’t true. It’s usually infatuation or lust or some mixture of those. But real, true love is like nothing else. Have you ever felt that way about anyone?”

“Yes.”

A torrent of emotions crashed over his face. “For Sherlock?”

She saw no sense in lying. “Yes.”

“And does he love you back?”

“No.”

An emotion flashed over his face, but too fast for her to decipher. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes.”

“And, yet, you still love him. In fact, I would say you’re willing to die in order to ensure his safety. Why?”

Again, Molly saw no sense in lying. She wrapped her arms around herself. “True love isn’t something you decide on. You don’t choose who you love. You just do it.”

He smiled dimly, a sad little expression. “Yes, like an illness for which there is no cure. When it is unrequited, there is no deeper pain. But requited, well, there is no higher plane on which to soar.”

The room fell quiet for a long time. Henry seemed lost in memories. Finally, Molly asked, “What was her name?”

He started to answer but stopped himself. Then, he winced, took another puff of his cigarette, and asked, “Why stay with Sherlock when he doesn’t love you?”

“Because being with him is better than being with anyone else.”

“Even if you could be with someone who could actually love you back?”

She nodded. “Even then.”

Henry examined her a long while. Then, taking a final drag on his cigarette before crushing it out on his plate, he proclaimed, “Sherlock is a lucky man.” He crossed his arms over his chest and walked back over to the bed.

Molly shrank back, unsure of his intentions.

He paused at this, holding his hands up. “After all this time, you still doubt me?”

“Need I remind you of your last name or the fact that I have been kidnapped and am likely to be killed as part of some complicated game conceived to entrap and likely kill Sherlock as well?”

“I want to be your friend, Molly. Would you believe me if I told you that?”

“Want to be my friend?” she countered. “Let me go.”

“Can’t do that, my darling,” he said, plopping down next to her on the bed and making them both bounce lightly. “So, we’ll just have to make the best of things. But, who knows? I can’t stop this plan, but I could, perhaps, make it to where you aren’t killed. What do you say to that?”

She scooted over away from him, keeping her eyes front. “I’m not her.”

“Her? Her who?”

She turned to look at him. “The woman you loved. I’m not her. No matter how much I might remind you of her, or how much you might want a holiday from your heartache by playing with me, I am not her and I won’t pretend to be her just because you dangle a carrot in front of me. Let me go. I can get to Sherlock. He can end all of this, and you’ll be free of your brother once and for all.” She reached over, putting her hand atop his. “Henry, it’s clear you have no stomach for his work. She’s dead, but you can still live. You’re better than your brothers. I can see it. There’s still time to be the man you want to be. The man you could be.”

“And what of my revenge?”

“Will that bring her back to life?”

His answer was no more than a murmur. “No.”

Molly felt hope swell in her chest. She pressed her advantage. “Then, help me. You can right this before it becomes another tragedy like the one you so obviously suffered.”

Henry opened his mouth to reply but frowned instead. He shuffled a little to the side and brought something up he’d been sitting on. “What’s this?”

The necklace and earrings. They must have come out of her pocket when they’d been tussling on the bed with the fork earlier. Molly went to snatch the jewelry from him, but he moved away in time. “They’re mine,” she said. “On loan from a friend.”

“Sherlock?”

“No, another friend.”

He examined the jewelry, holding up the necklace in the light. Suddenly, a strange expression overtook his whole face, as if he were seeing a ghost.

“Give them back, please,” Molly said.

He grabbed her arm, pulling her close. His face was so hard and foreign as if she’d never met him before. It scared her. “Don’t lie,” he said. “Sherlock gave you these. I know he did.”

“He didn’t. I borrowed them from another friend. I swear.” She didn’t want to give Mrs. Hudson’s name. As ferocious as Henry was scowling at her, she was afraid the landlady would come to harm.

Something in her voice seemed to trigger something in him. He looked down at the jewelry in his hand one last time, an unbelievable smile creeping back on his face. “Of course.” He passed the jewelry back to her and got to his feet, straightening his clothes as he went. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a few more things to see to before my brother returns.”

“Henry—”

“Get some rest, Molly,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Molly could only watch him as he hurried to the door and out of it. Something had happened here, but she had no idea what it was. She looked down at the jewelry crumpled in her hands. All she did know was that whatever hope she’d managed to cultivate in the last hour or so had left the room with Henry Moriarty.

**—RE—**

 

“How many is that?”

Sherlock continued to stare off at nothing, not bothering to look at John. He hated waiting and had little patience for it. “Does it matter?”

“You said you were quitting.”

“When was that?”

“So many times I’ve lost count.” There was a loud sigh before John stumbled across the darkened bookstore before settling down on the floor behind the tallest bookshelf next to Sherlock. “I guess I should be glad it’s not heroin. Dare I ask why you’re down here?”

Sherlock took a long, last drag on the cigarette before crushing it into the carpet. “I needed a quiet place. You were being too loud.”

“I wasn’t saying anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

John apparently decided not to argue further about this. Instead, he peered down at the now-burned carpet and the small pile of snuffed cigarettes there. “Mycroft’s going to hate that.”

Sherlock smiled. “I know.”

“Well, we’ve some good news, at least. Mycroft has a man on the inside.”

“So he says.”

“He has a plan to save Molly.”

“So he says.”

John turned his squint at Sherlock. “You don’t believe him?”

“I believe,” Sherlock paused as he lit another cigarette, “Mycroft has the same priorities he’s always had.”

John sighed again, leaning his back against the wall. “Can I get one of those?”

Sherlock finally gave his business partner his full attention. “Since when do you smoke?”

“I don’t, but now seems a good time to start.”

He grinned but swatted John’s hand away from his dwindling pack of cigarettes. “No. Mary will think I’m a bad influence on you.”

John chuckled. “ _She’s_ a bad influence on me.”

“Which is why you married her.” Sherlock blew out a waft of smoke.

“True.”

A lengthy silence followed, only interrupted by intermittent sounds of the laughter and talking of people as they passed outside the shop. Sherlock had smoked his way through the pack of cigarettes and was mourning the fact that he’d just lit his last one when John spoke again. Before he left on his ridiculous errand, Mycroft had insisted they remain in the shop—something Sherlock was regretting having agreed to.

“Mycroft has a solid plan. This man inside will contact Anthea when the time is right, and the cavalry will sweep in. All we have to do is wait.”

Sherlock studied his cigarette, almost mesmerized the almost elegant way the paper burned and turned to ash between his fingers. “Wait? Every second that goes by is another Molly is in danger. If I don’t show up at the end of the week with what Moriarty wants, he’s going to kill her.”

“I know Mycroft has been a complete git, but he’d never let anything happen to Molly.”

“You think he cares about a too-stubborn pathologist with an amazing ability to attract sociopaths?”

“He cares about _you_ —no matter what you may think otherwise—and you care for her.”

Sherlock didn’t bother to debate that. It was true. “I’ve cared for others before—so has he—and he’s had no issue snuffing them out when they became a liability. Mycroft is not given to sentiment. Never make the mistake of believing otherwise _._ You should know that, in the Holmes family, I’m considered the overemotional one. Well,” he added with a shrug, “now anyway.”

John soaked up this information with a fatal expression. Then, he blinked and steeled his back, as if reassuring himself. “No. No matter what you think, Mycroft has a code, Sherlock. He promised Molly he would get her out,” He nodded to himself, “and he will.”

“You will find, if you examine my brother’s words to Molly carefully, that he merely informed her of the dangers and said he would _attempt_ to get her out. Mycroft does not make promises. His code—as you put it—was fulfilled the second he gave Molly the warning and allowed her to make the _choice_ to be used as bait.” He snorted. “Not that it was much of a choice. He knew she wouldn’t say no if it meant I would be protected. It was checkmate from that point on.” Sherlock inhaled more precious nicotine.

“But she’s … No, his code—”

“This same code has allowed Mycroft to condemn his own brother to death on occasion. Molly is nothing to him.” Sherlock stared hard at John. “ _Nothing_. Never assume otherwise.”

There was a moment of silence as John absorbed this. Finally, he declared, “We’ll save her.” John’s tone was forthright, but it did nothing to settle Sherlock.

The silence between them continued until the rattle of the door told them Mycroft had returned.

The partners remained as they were as Mycroft opened the door and let himself inside the small shop, his feminine costume intact. Still in character, he hobbled over to them and said, “You’ll both want to follow me.”

It wasn’t Mycroft’s words that sent the ice water coursing through Sherlock’s veins. It was the fact that his brother had glanced at the ashtray Sherlock had made of his carpet and had no response. Sherlock stubbed out his final cigarette with all the others. Again, there wasn’t a wince or a frown in reaction. Mutely, both men rose and followed the “old woman” up the stairs.

Once the three were again ensconced in the tiny second-floor flat, Sherlock leaned forward on the sofa and said, “Well? What did Anthea say? Has your man on the inside finally contacted her? Where is Molly?”

“Anthea received a package. From Moriarty. She had it delivered to me. I went to pick it up.”

“How did Anthea know where you were?” John asked. “I thought only Sherlock could find you.”

Mycroft straightened, looking remarkably like himself even garbed as he was. “I trained Anthea myself. And, even though I am no longer employed as her boss, her loyalty remains with me. I knew that, sooner or later, the professor would want to get in contact. I made sure Anthea was aware of this and put in place a way for her to get in touch—should the need arise.”

“So you knew you’d be sacked after all?” John asked.

“No,” Mycroft countered. “I put this in place after I received notice of my termination.”

“Yes, John, you will find the elder Mr. Holmes is not as omnipotent as he would like us all to believe. What was in the package?”

“Two things. A blood-soaked blue shirt and a video message.”

Mycroft’s hands were empty. Sherlock felt his stomach drop.

“Where is it?”

The older man inhaled uneasily. “I’ve watched it, and I feel it’s best—”

“Play it or I’ll end this whole thing now and tell Moriarty where he can find his microchip.”

Mycroft locked his jaw but still walked over to where he’d put his large purse. Rummaging through it, he produced a flash drive, which he then thrust into his laptop. Within a few minutes, a recording was playing.

Moriarty was seated in a chair, legs crossed and holding what looked like a riding crop across his lap. He was dressed crisply in a dark suit and tie. “Hello to you all. I am sure by now Mr. Holmes the younger has been reunited with his eldest sibling and is aware of what I truly seek.” He grinned for the camera. “I know we agreed on a week, Mr. Holmes, but it seems that I’m going to need you to get it to me in two days. After all, I think we know who is really in charge, don’t we?” He lifted the crop, allowing them to see the spots of red at the end. “If you need proof, allow me to demonstrate.”

The image changed to show another room, dark and dank. As the camera zoomed, it became apparent that a woman in a blue evening dress was chained to a sizeable hook hanging from the ceiling, her back to them all. She was shaking, but whether it was from fear or cold, Sherlock couldn’t discern.

“Oh my God. That’s Molly,” John choked.

Sherlock said nothing. He already knew what was coming, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

“Now, my lovely,” the professor said coming onto the scene. His clothing was rumpled. This had clearly taken place before the other message.

Moriarty approached the woman, running his crop lightly down her back. “Let’s put on a show for the gentlemen, shall we? Let’s hear you scream nice and loud.”

“Go to hell,” Molly croaked.

Moriarty didn’t bother to reply, he simply took the crop and whipped it across her back. Molly jumped but remained quiet. The professor looked at the camera as if sharing a secret with the audience. “I do so _love_ a challenge.”

He then proceeded to strike her again and again, shredding her dress and causing welts to rise and bleed on her once-lovely back and shoulders. In the end, the professor got the screams he craved. Lots of them. At last, when Molly seemed to have been able to take no more, her body collapsed, hanging like a corpse on the hook. It was an image that would be forever burned into Sherlock’s mind.

The recording changed, bringing them back to Moriarty sitting in his chair. “I want my brother’s body in two days.” He leaned forward. “And if I don’t have it by then, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Jim and your protégé Billy won’t be the only ones dead.”

He got to his feet. There was a sound of shuffling feet. “Oh,” he said, almost as an afterthought. “And, Mr. Mycroft Holmes, I have a little something for you.”

The shuffling sounds got louder until a large man wearing a blue shirt and a hood over his head was trundled into the room. Removing the hood, the professor leaned to press his cheek to the man’s cheek, as if posing himself. “Do you remember your friend? Did you really think I wouldn’t know he belonged to you? Did you really think so pitiful a fly could infiltrate my web without me knowing?” He shook his head. “Pathetic. Haven’t you figured it out yet? I know _everything_.”

He moved away from the man, facing the camera. “I want what’s mine, and I _will_ have it. Do you understand?”

Even though it was a recording and there was no way they could have spoken to him, he waited as if they would. Then, when the silence went on too long, he yelled, “Do you understand?” He punctuated this by taking a gun from one of his off-camera henchmen, putting it to Mycroft’s man on the inside’s head, and blowing his brains out.

There was a sickening thump of the corpse hitting the floor. The professor, now calm and sedate as though he hadn’t just been baptized in another man’s blood and brain matter, adjusted his tie and said, “Two days, gentlemen. Have a pleasant evening.”

The screen went dark.


	55. Holmes' Family Secrets

“Play it again.”

Mycroft and John looked at Sherlock in joint surprise. He tersely repeated his directive. When neither man moved, the consulting detective took on the task himself, clicking to replay the recording. Mycroft issued a huff of disapproval and moved behind the changing screen. Sherlock disregarded this as he focused on the computer. Once he’d had watched it all the way through a third time, he turned away and paced the room. John, he noted, had mutely collapsed onto the sofa, head in his hands.

Mycroft, now changed, returned from behind the screen, wiping away the final remnants of his disguise. He stopped when he spied John. “No need to despair, Dr. Watson. This is a minor setback. Nothing more,” he said.

John looked up with an incredulous glare. “A minor setback? Your man-on-the-inside is dead, and, with him, your plan to rescue Molly. There is nothing _mino_ r about that.”

Mycroft gave no reply as he strode into the diminutive kitchen area and began the process of making tea. His movements were unhurried but efficient. Sherlock stopped pacing to observe this, looking for some crack in the older man’s aloof facade. There was none. It should have left Sherlock relieved, but it didn’t. No, the fear that had been gnawing at him ever since he’d first realized Molly had been kidnapped was still there. Underlying this was a concentrated level of anger unlike any he’d ever known. Simply put, seeing her suffering first hand was emotionally flaying him alive. He knew it was best to bury these feelings, but he couldn’t. Not this time. They were unabashedly in charge of him. Right now, he was overly emotional and overly emotional people were notoriously stupid for seeking hope in any form. Acknowledging this truth did nothing to change the situation. Logic was a foreign concept at this moment, a language his mind couldn’t comprehend. So, he continued to watch as Mycroft added his usual two dollops of sugar to the teacup along with a squeeze of lemon. When the spoon returned twice more to the sugar bowl to deliver a third and fourth helping of sweetener, Sherlock hissed his displeasure before turning away.

The pacing resumed. The walls around him seemed to be closing in more and more with every step until he felt he couldn’t breathe, but he knew better than to leave. Molly was priority here, not his needs, not these _feelings_. He had to save her. He tried to compel his brain to come up with some kind of plan, but there was none to be had. Instead, his mind fought back, flooding him with a host of images too foolish to think about right now.

Molly slapping him that day so long ago in the lab. How proud he’d been of her in that moment, how mortified he’d been with his own weaknesses in the face of such strength.

Her screams as Moriarty beat her. The impotence Sherlock felt as he watched it all.

Molly smiling at him on the other side of his bathtub, more sensual in that one expression than any woman he’d ever known.

Holding her in his arms as they danced that night. Dancing. That night. With her. And she’d known then that all of this could happen to her. She’d swallowed her fear. Went anyway. She danced anyway. She smiled up at him as if he were a god … put her trust in him … anyway.

The sweet taste of her skin on his tongue. The intoxicating scent of lavender that always followed her.

The vision in his mind’s eye of her hurt, kept locked away and tortured in some room under Moriarty’s thumb, under his maniacal control.

Her laughter, which never failed to enliven Sherlock. Her eyes, which never failed to see into the core of him—especially in those moments when he desperately didn’t want her to. The intense and uncomfortable rush of pleasure and contentment, which never failed to hit him whenever he spent time in her company in the lab, in the flat, in the bed.

_No. This is the surest way to madness. Shut it down. Now._

Sherlock knew Moriarty’s purpose. Make him so terrified he would lose Molly that he would do anything to see her returned, including giving up the microchip. Honestly, it was a masterstroke; an ingenious way for Moriarty to regain control of this game he’d designed. But Sherlock wasn’t an idiot. He knew giving up the microchip wouldn’t save Molly. She would only be a loose end at that point, something quickly tied up and done away with. No, the only true way to save her was to take back the power, make Moriarty the one to feel desperate and out of control.

The question was how, and that how lay somehow with Mycroft. _It had to._

“Sherlock, you should sit.” Mycroft carried his tea over to the daybed and resumed his former position there.

Sherlock continued pacing, lamenting his lack of cigarettes. He needed to be calm. He needed to think. Abruptly, he darted over to Mycroft’s changing screen and behind it. There was a tiny chest of drawers and a series of hooks on the wall, clothing hanging from each. He opened drawers, rifling through their contents. When he didn’t find it, he rummaged through the pockets of the coats and jumpers.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft called from the other side of the screen, voice laden with growing weariness and exasperation.

Sherlock came out from behind it and went into the kitchen to continue his search. Drawers and cabinets were opened and slammed shut in quick succession, but he still failed to locate what he sought. “I know it’s here,” he muttered to himself. He stopped, putting his fingers against his temples. “Think. Think. Think. Where would he put it?”

“Sherlock, you’re being ridiculous. Stop this now, and collect yourself.”

“I need it.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Tell me where it is.”

“No.”

“Which means you do have it and it’s in this very room,” Sherlock said gleefully, moving his search into the sitting area. There were shelves lining the wall. He started there first, knocking over knick-knacks and trinkets as he went.

A loud, put-upon sigh took over the room. “We don’t have time for this.”

Sherlock moved onto the drawers in the end table near the end of the settee. “Then save me trouble, and tell me where it is.”

Mycroft calmly sipped his tea. “This is nothing more than weakness and vice.”

Sherlock felt as if he were about to explode. “No, this is my process.” He slammed a fist on the end table, causing the lamp atop it to teeter precariously back and forth. ”Give it to me now!”

Mycroft began to speak, but John cut him off. “He just watched his girlfriend be beaten by a psychopath, Mycroft. Give him the damn cigarettes!”

Mycroft glared at John, who glared right back, unfazed. At last, with a huff of displeasure, the elder Holmes delved into his trouser pocket and held out a rumpled packet. “Here’s your crutch, brother dear.”

Sherlock snatched the packet from Mycroft’s hand. “From the syrupy nature of your tea, _brother dear_ , I would say I’m not the only one with a crutch.”

“Well, since everyone else has gone to hell, I might as well,” John said, getting to his feet. “Got any Scotch, Mycroft? I could use a nip.”

“In the cabinet over the sink,” Sherlock answered before Mycroft could.

He went to shake a cigarette into his hands and noticed the marking on the packet. “Methols? Really, Mycroft?” he asked with a mocking sneer. “Taking your feminine disguise a bit too far, don’t you think?”

Mycroft ignored him. As beggars could not afford to be choosers, Sherlock lit the cigarette and was halfway through it before John returned with a glass and the bottle. Resuming his seat on the settee, the former army man poured himself a finger of whiskey and, after a wincing gulp, said, “So, what’s the plan now?”

“Yes,” Sherlock added sardonically, “do tell us what you have in mind next, oh great one. No doubt, you knew this would happen and have a backup plan in place for this _minor setback_.”

The pause that followed this confirmed what he already suspected. Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued smoking his cigarette.

John looked as panicked as Sherlock felt. “So that’s it then? The two greatest minds in this hemisphere are in the same room, and we have nothing? What are we going to do?”

“We’re not going to panic,” Mycroft said.

There was only one plan here. Sherlock knew that, had known it since that recording had begun to play the first time. The issue was getting Mycroft to agree to it. “We’re going to give the man his microchip,” Sherlock declared.

“No,” Mycroft said. “It cannot and will not fall into his hands. No matter if …” He trailed off and turned his attention to his tea. He swallowed thickly before beginning again. “There is another way. We just have to think. Luckily, we have time.”

“Surely, you know there is no other way this must play out. Give him the damn chip. We can get it back after Molly is secured.”

“No.”

“Do it,” Sherlock growled, “or I will.”

“And how will that save your …” Mycroft made a face before continuing, “pathologist? You know he’ll kill her once he has the chip. He’ll have to. It’s the obvious move.”

Sherlock straightened to his full height. “Not if I offered him someone else to kill instead.”

John asked, “Who?”

“No,” Mycroft said, already knowing the answer.

“Who?” John repeated.

“Me,” Sherlock said. “He takes me and the microchip in exchange for letting Molly go. That will be the deal. This gives you time to get Molly to safety and devise a plan to get the chip back.”

“No,” Mycroft repeated.

“Just listen—”

“It won’t work.” Mycroft sighed again. “You’re letting sentiment rule you, Sherlock. Grasping at straws like an overemotional fool. Pull yourself together. Remember the rules.”

“But—” Sherlock began.

“He’s right, Sherlock,” John interrupted. “You’ll only get yourself killed. Besides, we can’t let a chip that powerful end up in the hands of a madman. You saw what he did to Molly. There has to be a way for us to rescue her, keep you alive, _and_ hold on to the microchip.”

“Don’t you both see? He’s coming after us anyway—well, me. His plan has to end with me dead.”

“And you think the best way to deal with that is to assist him in the endeavor?” Mycroft hissed.

“I don’t care what happens to me. Just get Molly to safety.”

Mycroft’s mouth fell open, but he quickly collected himself and stirred his tea. “You don’t really mean that.”

“Don’t I?”

Mycroft’s gaze locked Sherlock’s. After a long pause, he said, “Sentiment has no place here. You know what the rules are.”

“I don’t give a damn about your rules!”

“No,” Mycroft said, “you care about Molly Hooper, which is exactly what will get her killed.”

“You don’t—”

Mycroft’s teacup rattled as it was banged onto the coffee table. “William, sit down and shut up. The adults in the room need a bloody moment to think!”

It was an old button to press, calling him William and using the tone and command Mummy often employed to get her way. But, from the way Sherlock felt himself immediately do as he had been bid, it was apparently still an operational one. Thus, with nothing more than a muffled grunt of disagreement, he went back to smoking his cigarette. Mycroft picked back up his tea and resumed stirring it.

John looked between the two siblings as if they’d both lost their respective minds, but remained mute. A pregnant silence followed. The longer the silence, the more Sherlock was sure he was losing his mind. Then, the silence was blissfully broken, but not with something Sherlock expected.

“When did this package arrive in Anthea’s lap? How much of the two days Moriarty gave us do we even still have?” John asked.

“The package was on her doorstep when she arrived home last night. We can assume that means we have until tomorrow at sunset,” Mycroft said.

John blanched. “He knows where she lives?”

Mycroft drank his tea. “She knows how to protect herself.”

“Yes,” Sherlock added churlishly, “because Mycroft would never put someone in danger who didn’t know how to protect themselves. He would never let someone die to safeguard himself and what he wants. The rules must _always_ come first. And, if one does not follow the rules, well, they must then be done away with in short form—no matter who they might be. Right, dearest one?”

The temperature of the room shrank by twenty degrees as Mycroft’s eyes darted to meet his. “Sherlock, this is neither the place nor time for a tantrum.”

“Isn’t it?” Sherlock countered. “John believes you to be an honorable gentleman who follows some kind of unbreakable code of chivalry. Shouldn’t he know whom he’s really dealing with? That your governmental codename isn’t just that? Iceman is truly what you are.”

“You will stop speaking now,” Mycroft ordered.

His implacable tone was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back. Sherlock grinned at Mycroft. “Will I? Don’t count on it. John is like family to me. It seems he should be in on a few of the Holmes’ family secrets. Don’t you think?”

“Boys, please,” John started. “Sherlock, you do need to calm down. Mycroft will come up with something. He has to have another plan. He always does.”

“No, John, he doesn’t. He’s going to let Molly die so he can keep his precious microchip.” He looked at his brother. “Tell him the truth, Mycroft. Tell him how you’ve already thought everything through.”

Mycroft said nothing, just kept peering down into his teacup as if it held answers. Sherlock turned to John. “It’s all a chess game which he must win. And he will sacrifice anything—including an innocent pathologist—to keep his positioning on the board.”

“But it’s Molly!” John said.

“It doesn’t matter. He’s done far worse in the past. His own—”

“Sherlock, shut up now,” Mycroft directed, shooting to his feet.

“Or what? You won’t intimidate me into silence, brother dear. Not anymore. Do what you will with me, but John Watson is going to know who you really are.” Sherlock turned back to John. “Allow me to introduce you to Arthur Mycroft Edward Holmes. He isn’t just a man with a minor government position who is burdened with a troublesome younger brother. No, he once had _two_ troublesome younger brothers.”

“Two? What do you mean by two?” John said weakly. He looked between them again. “There are three Holmes brothers?”

“Yes, Sherrinford Holmes. Older than me and younger than Mycroft—but smarter than both of us combined. Haven’t you ever thought it odd that there are seven years between Mycroft and myself? Mummy quit her important work to raise children. You know this. Do you really think she would wait six and a half years before getting pregnant again?”

“Sherlock, no,” Mycroft croaked in dismay.

He continued anyway. “He forced Sherrinford to work for him, to work for the government—just as he does me from time to time. And, when our dear, sweet Sherrinford got in the way of something Mycroft wanted …. Well?” Sherlock paused as he made a grand gesture toward the older man, who’d gone much too pale. “Should I finish it or do you want to?”

When the silence continued, Sherlock gave a nod. “When Sherrinford got too caught up in his work, when he became too troublesome for Mycroft to handle, when he failed to follow the rules—”

“Sherlock, please,” Mycroft pleaded, looking as if one more damning word would strike him down where he sat.

But Sherlock was too far gone for anything to stop him now. “Mycroft had him killed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I still have not watched Season 4 of Sherlock yet. That's my prize for when I finally finish this thing.


	56. A Little Push

Sherlock’s blunt indictment brought everything and everyone to a halt. Then, after an exceedingly long time, the spell apparently broke. John was the first to move.

Pouring himself another drink, the doctor downed it and declared, “Just for the tally books: When all this is over, I’m going to need some serious therapy.” Hastily sloshing more amber liquid into his glass, he glanced back up at the two men currently looking anywhere but at each other. He shook his head before giving them a mock toast. “We all are.”

This loaded, almost-broody silence continued until Sherlock felt like it was roasting him alive. He’d known the truth, of course. Mycroft had practically confessed that day so long ago in 221 B, but there was something about saying it all aloud and not having Mycroft vehemently deny it that made it all the more damning. Sherlock’s instinct was to keep going, to yell, scream, and beat Mycroft with every morbid, angry, terrifying, and damning supposition he’d ever had regarding Sherrinford. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t focus, and, most of all, couldn’t bear to spare a glance at the man who’d practically been a second father to him. Sherlock had a lot of experience with betrayal, had trained himself to expect it from nearly every person of his acquaintance, but this … this felt like something worse than that. It actually _hurt_. This hurt, coupled with his ever-growing concern for Molly, took over his mind, making him unable to remain calm, to keep to his purpose.

He inhaled, held the breath, and then let it go. Repeated the motion, again and again, trying to get himself under control. _You have a purpose in this. Remember that._ Love, unlike betrayal, wasn’t something Sherlock was as well versed in. It was a sticky, insensible, gelatinous mess of sensation full of incomprehensible rules, a multitude of perplexing obligations, and an ocean of vulnerability which could easily drown the most proficient of swimmers. Mrs. Hudson loved him like only a second mother, favored aunt, or doting godmother could. John knew his flaws, loved and accepted him anyway, and considered him his best mate, but Sherlock had never understood why or could even fathom how that could be. Likewise, Molly had loved him and not only accepted his shortcomings, but seemed to know him better at times than he knew himself. He’d done things to her that no one should ever forgive, but she always did.

_Always, always._

The echo of her voice in his mind was too much. Wincing, he fought to purge it from his thoughts with marginal success.

As much as he didn’t understand the love these people felt for him—or their foolishness in continuing to unabashedly waste emotion on a git such as himself—he’d always been too selfish a being not to bask in it. Like a basset hound languishing in the afternoon sun, he’d viewed their affection for him as something that would only last for so long. One day, he would cross a line, demand too much, go too far and they would leave him. It was rational, wise, inevitable.

But Mycroft. Mycroft didn’t just know him. He was _like_ him. He understood how Sherlock’s mind functioned because his mind worked in much the same way. They were genetically and historically bound. That meant something, some kind of deeper, unbreakable bond. But as much as Sherlock has always known that Mycroft had chosen his own ambitions over Sherrinford, he’d never said it aloud. Saying it aloud made it more real somehow, more calculating, and more treacherous. It also made him automatically wonder when his own time would come. When would Mycroft make a similar decision where Sherlock was concerned? This underlying question had been the root of the caustic nature of their relationship all these years.

_Well, that and the way Mycroft never minds his own bloody business._

John collapsed on the settee, finishing off the bit of liquor in his glass. “So, Mycroft,” he said, his sarcasm so subtle it could almost be mistaken for joviality, “you had another brother, one you apparently had killed. Any other family secrets I should know about? Your mother is the queen’s long-lost older sister? Your father is the president of Uruguay?”

Mycroft ignored this attempt at levity. Instead, he inhaled deeply and released the breath with the sluggishness of a defeated man. “I don’t suppose,” he remarked to Sherlock, his voice soft and holding no trace of its typical haughtiness, “it would do me any good to explain my actions?”

“Will it bring Sherrinford back to life?” Sherlock retorted.

“You know it won’t.”

“Then save it.”

“It would give you a better understanding of the circumstances. You must understand, Sherlock. I had no choice.”

Sherlock scoffed. “There is always a choice, you just have to find it. How many times has that been the last thing you’ve declared before shoving me into another rehab facility?”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“You’re right. My drug use risked only my life. You routinely risk anyone who comes into your path. Well,” he continued,” anyone but yourself. Can’t have Mr. Minor Government Position risking his own neck, can we? Not when the country needs him so bloody much!”

“You have never been able to see the bigger picture!”

“And that is _all_ you see!”

They glared at each other. Finally, Mycroft took another breath and tried again, more sedately than before. “Sherlock, I cannot afford to wallow in the emotion you so easily allow to infiltrate your mind. I must remain above all of that. Otherwise, governments fall, economies crumble, and hundreds of thousands of people die. The self-righteous anger you so callously toss my way is a privilege afforded because I make the tough decisions. These decisions save people. In fact, were it not for me, you would be dead in a drug-infested alley or even now rotting in some prison!”

Sherlock fought to control his temper, but it was a losing battle. “Both are better options than spending one more minute in the company of a man guilty of fratricide! Don’t you dare try to reason your way out of what you did, Mycroft. He was Sherrinford. He was our brother. Our _brother_. Don’t you understand that?”

“You are the one who doesn’t understand. If I had not intervened, he would have killed—”

“No, he wouldn’t have. He was smart, smarter than you and I combined. He was special.”

“Special?” Mycroft snorted. “Sentiment has damaged your memory, Sherlock. He was a psychopath.”

“No. He loved. Psychopaths can’t love. Sherrinford was ... fragile. Psychopaths can’t be reasoned with. He could. They don’t bond with anyone … not really. But he did. He _did_.”

“Yes, too much. And giving into his feelings is where things went wrong. Sentiment clouds one’s judgment, makes one irrational, foolish, and reckless.” Mycroft sighed. “A lesson I have spent most of my life trying to get you to recognize. You must learn your place in this world. We all have to.”

Sherlock ignored this. “Sherrinford didn’t always understand why the world was the way it was. Things we could manage, he couldn’t. He needed help. He needed us. He _always_ needed us. He wasn’t a lone wolf. He wasn’t cut out for this cloak-and-dagger life. You knew this. But you pressed him into service anyway.”

“He was needed. No one else could do what he could. It was a national emergency. He had his weaknesses, yes, but I could control him.” Mycroft’s gaze skittered away as the deceit in those words settled heavily about the room. “I _thought_ I could.” His head fell in defeat. “I tried—”

But Sherlock was beyond explanations and excuses. “You used his gifts, put him in danger, and when he became a liability, you had him killed.” Sherlock paused before using his final ace. “What do you think Mummy will say when she finds out?”

Mycroft’s head snapped up at that. All of the blood drained from his face. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Sherlock leaned in meaningfully, arms crossed over his chest. “Wouldn’t I?”

“But they have grieved and moved on. It’s been years. You remember how Mummy was, how inconsolable Father became. He stopped speaking for months!”

Sherlock gave an indifferent shrug. “Well, Sherry always was his favorite.”

“Take this seriously. You’re talking about tearing apart our family.”

“You did that all by yourself. I think it’s time our parents knew exactly how sullied their _perfect_ little Mycroft truly is, don’t you?” He paused, letting his words fully sink in. “Buck up, mate. They say the truth will set you free. Let’s find out, shall we?”

The expression that came over Mycroft’s face was lethal. His body went ramrod straight.

Sherlock immediately reacted. “Try it,” he said. “I’m not Sherrinford, Myc. I’ll see you coming, and I’ll be more than ready. Frankly, I’d relish the chance to finally put _you_ in _your_ place.”

John stepped between them. “Stop this, boys.” He opened and closed his mouth a few times, as if unable to decide what to say. Finally, he seemed to come to a resolve. “Molly is what is important now. The rest of this … _stuff_ … It’s going to have to wait.”

Sherlock pressed his advantage. “If he doesn’t agree to help me save Molly, I will tell our parents.” He pulled the burner phone from his pocket, holding it aloft for all to see. “Right this second. Mummy often frets that I don’t ring her nearly enough.”

Mycroft stared at him, but said nothing, almost as if he were daring him to proceed. Not one to make false threats when it came to his family, Sherlock proceeded to begin dialing. He’d pressed the third button before Mycroft spoke.

“Your plan to save her is reckless. It isn’t achievable.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I’ve done the calculations. It isn’t. Both you and your pathologist will end up dead, and the chip will be in the professor’s hands. There is no positive outcome. As such, the plan will not work.”

Sherlock didn’t bother to look up as he continued to dial. “Then come up with one that bloody well will!”

“There isn’t one. Do you think I haven’t already tried?”

“No, I think all you care about is the microchip. Prioritize Molly above that and try again.”

“But she isn’t more important than the millions who would suffer if the professor gets his hands—”

Sherlock interrupted. “She is.”

“She isn’t.”

“She is to me!”

Sherlock felt the blood rushing to his cheeks at what he’d just given away. But, at the same time, he didn’t care. Whatever got Molly to safety. That was all that mattered.

Mycroft flinched as if he’d been struck. Then, without another word, he closed his eyes. Finally, with another breath, he opened his eyes and said, somberly, “Your patholo—” He stopped when he caught Sherlock’s glare. “ _Molly_ is a unique woman. More patient than anyone I have ever seen—especially when it comes to you. She is talented in her field and has the toughest moral fiber of anyone I have ever known. But even she would have to agree that her life isn’t worth—”

Mycroft was cut off by Sherlock slamming him against the wall. “Finish that sentence, brother dear, and I swear it will be your last.”

“You’re letting your emotions get the better of you,” Mycroft grunted.

“Damn right.”

“We’d be playing right into Moriarty’s hands.”

“I. Don’t. Care.”

“We’ll die. All of us. You, me, _John_.”

“So be it, then. But not Molly. She gets away from all of this.”

“You’re just like _him_. Don’t you see? It’s—”

“Enough talk, Mycroft. Are you going to help me save Molly or am I calling our parents?”

A long minute stretched by as the two men stared at each other. Finally, a decision was made. Physically, Mycroft might have been held against the wall, but Sherlock knew mentally, the older man was no longer there. He could almost feel the synapses firing in Mycroft’s brain as his oldest brother delved within himself. A million thoughts, a million plans, a million strategies, a million calculations whizzing by, all at the speed of thought. Doubtless, there were ones that would force Sherlock away from his threat; ones that would allow Mycroft to continue on his original, foolproof plan; ones that would put him back in the position of control; and even ones that might just save Molly. It was an incredible sight to experience. It always had been, and not something Sherlock had often been privy to witness. Mycroft generally had already decided what he was going to do long before he reached out to anyone.

Sherlock was highly intelligent. He knew he was. But there was something so far between highly intelligent and what Mycroft was. And Sherlock was counting on that something to be the thing that could save Molly. He’d put everything he’d had into this little push. John had often called him a machine. But, in reality, that was Mycroft. It had always been Mycroft. Weighing ideas, running calculations, discarding, refining, and coming out with the best resolution. Maybe he wasn’t as comprehensive or prognostic as the mighty Earl Denton, but Mycroft was still very, very good. It would be enough. It would _have_ to be enough. 

Finally, like a high-powered computer that had just completed an intense set of algorithms and come up with a final answer to an impossible question, Mycroft shuddered and came back to himself. He blinked, once and again, and then looked at Sherlock.

“You’re going to need to let me go now,” was all he said.

To anyone listening, this response was ambiguous. But, for Sherlock, it was enough.

 

—RE—

 

Molly wasn’t sure how long had passed since she’d seen Henry, but she knew it was longer than he’d originally promised. Besides the man who occasionally brought meals for her, she saw no one. From the number of meals, she could tell it had been approximately two days. But beyond that, she was sure of nothing. The longer Henry stayed away, the more concerned she became.

Was there something wrong? Had the professor returned? Had Henry been hurt? She told herself it was best not to worry about Henry, but she couldn’t help it. The professor might be his brother, but Henry was in just as much danger of losing his life around the man as she was. Molly had been around enough psychopaths to know.

She’d used her time well. She’d completed a thorough search of the room and corresponding bathroom, but found nothing to give her any clues as to where she was or even to fashion as a weapon. The cabinets in the bathroom and the drawers in the bedroom were empty. She’d been wearing the thin nightgown and robe for days. She washed herself off in the tub from time to time, but without soap, shampoo, or even a towel, there was little else she could do. Her meals were likewise somber affairs. The only eating utensil she was allowed was a spoon, which her jailer never failed to collect upon his return.

Molly lay on the bed, legs crossed over one another, and fingered the necklace in the pocket of her robe. That was the strangest part of all of this. Why some jewelry from Mrs. Hudson would cause such an odd reaction from Henry was something she still couldn’t figure out. However, she couldn’t help but think it somehow had been the catalyst to his continued absence.

She maintained her concentration on this. The alternative was that she thought of Sherlock and that only led to missing him and wondering where he was and a whole host of other things that did her no good. Her original plan to get herself killed had clearly not worked. And, thinking about it from this vantage point, she realized it was foolish and reckless. The professor knew all he needed to already about Sherlock. He already had a plan. Yes, she was a pawn in that plan, but if she were dead, he would merely get a new pawn and begin again. She wouldn’t be stopping his plan, merely delaying it. Then, someone else’s life would be at stake.

No, Molly decided, she would do better to keep her head about her, to work from this angle to assist Sherlock in bringing the professor to justice. That had been her role from her first meeting with Sherlock. There was no need to start changing things now. Sherlock would come for her. She knew that. Maybe he would succeed. Maybe he wouldn’t. But she would help him to her last dying breath. He counted on her, and she had never let him down before. She wasn’t going to start now.

She got up and went to the loo to relieve herself. She’d completed her absolutions and was returning to the bedroom when the locked door swung open. Henry hurried through, muttering something quick to her jailer before closing the door behind him.

“Molly,” he said, motioning her over, “come. We don’t have much time.”

Molly halted, one eyebrow raised in cautious curiosity. “What? Why?”

Henry sighed and closed the distance between them himself. “Dr. Moriarty has returned and is on his way. I need you to trust me.”

Molly recoiled as he put his hand on her shoulder. “Why should I? You could have helped me get out of here. Instead, you waited around for days and now your brother has returned.”

Henry’s face blanked in surprise. “You can’t think—Molly, he would never have let you go.”

“He wasn’t here.”

“He would have known anyway. He always knows. You would have died. I would have died.”

Molly closed her eyes in disappointment, knowing he was likely correct. “What do you want now? Trust you about what?”

Henry’s hand clenched her shoulder, forcing her to look him in the eyes. “There’s no time to explain. I just need you to trust that I am trying to keep you alive as best I can.”

“But what about your revenge? If you try to help me, the professor won’t help you.”

“I thought you said I should let the revenge stuff go?”

“You should. It doesn’t mean I’ll believe you are suddenly willing to do so.”

“I’m not sure I am, but I am going to try. All right?”

“But—”

He spared a glance at the still-closed door. “We don’t have _time_ , Molly. He’ll be here any minute. Just trust me and obey me without question. OK?”

He stared at her, his grey eyes piercing hers in a way only Sherlock’s had been able to do previously. Finally, she nodded, not sure if she had just made a deal with the devil or not. She had little time to consider the matter as the door swung open again. Henry immediately released her and stepped away. All expression fell from his face as if cleaned with one swipe of a cloth.

The professor’s gaze darted between the two of them, and a grin appeared on his face that made Molly’s stomach harden into a tight knot.

“I apologize for being away from you for so long, Molly. Things needed tending to which required my personal touch. I do hope you didn’t miss me too much.” He walked into the room as if he’d been expected for tea. “I did leave dear Henry here for company.”

Molly said nothing. Two men came in behind Moriarty carrying black equipment bags. She wanted to ask what all this was about, but the warning look Henry sent her kept her mouth shut. Still, the more she watched the men work to set up the equipment, the more dread began to fill her.

_Whatever this is, it’s not good._


	57. The Promise

“We need to talk about this.”

Sherlock paused in the act of pulling on his trousers, rolled his eyes, and gave a sarcastic wave of welcome, ignoring the painful twinge that accompanied it. “Come on in. It’s not as if I’m busy or _fully dressed.”_

John glowered. “I don’t care if you’re bloody naked. I’m coming in.”

“Finally ready to put those rumors and me to bed, eh?”

Instead of answering this purposefully lewd invitation to leave, John strode further into the room and slammed the door behind him.

Sherlock jerked his dress shirt from a nearby hanger. There was a blissful silence as he slid his arms in the sleeves. Then, of course, John had to go and spoil things.

“This plan is madness, Sherlock. Surely you must see that.”

 “It’s really not the best time to discuss this.” Sherlock finished buttoning the shirt and tucked it into his trousers. Next, he grabbed a belt.

“When then?”

“Later.”

“There won’t be a later. We’re doing this _now_.”

Sherlock groaned inwardly, versed enough in John’s tenacity to pinpoint when the man couldn’t be put off. Finally, sparing him a glance, the consulting detective declared, “Yes, no, and no.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“They’re answers to your questions.” When John continued to stare at him in disbelief, Sherlock explained, “ _Yes_ , I know this plan is guaranteed to make me Moriarty’s prisoner. _That would be the point_. _No_ , there is nothing you can say to talk me out of it. Molly’s safety is paramount. And _no_ , you can’t come with me. What are you thinking? You have a wife and child to consider.”

“There has got to be a better way of freeing Molly than playing the world’s biggest game of chicken with a crazy man!”

“I’m certainly open to new ideas. Well?” He paused dramatically with one eyebrow raised in challenge, knowing John had nothing. Then, when the doctor continued to stand there whitening with anger, he said, “So glad we had this chat. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I do need to finish getting ready.”

“Sherlock, you blackmailed Mycroft—the man no one blackmails and whom you rightly don’t trust because he killed your other brother—into coming up with a plan to save Molly which leaves you in the clutches of a psychopath intent on taking over the world and killing you—and not necessarily in that order.”

Sherlock sat down on end of the bed and put on his shoes and socks. “Thanks for the recap.”

“The plan won’t work.” He let out a grunt of annoyance. “Why can’t we use the microchip to find Moriarty? Surely—”

“We’ve been over this. Mycroft and his cadre of tech minions have tried. They can’t get it to work. The professor, no doubt, knows this. Likely, he had the chip built this way as a failsafe in case it fell into the wrong hands. The good news is that this tells us he can’t build another one. If he could, he just would, safe in the knowledge that this one couldn’t be corrupted. Whoever he got to build this one either refuses to do so again or isn’t around anymore. Balance of probability, it’s the second scenario.”

“But how do you know Mycroft isn’t just lying about all that? He wants to keep the microchip. Maybe—”

“If the microchip were operational, Mycroft would have already used it to uncover the professor. All of this wouldn’t be happening. I would have completed my flight to Eastern Europe and would, even now, be dead.”

“But—”

 “But nothing. Mycroft says this plan will work. He’s never wrong.”

“You think believing anything Mycroft says at this point is smart? With everything that has happened?”

“We’re talking in circles. The plan will work. It has to.”

“But don’t you see? That’s _why_ it won’t work. It leaves too much to chance. Human beings are emotional and unpredictable creatures.”

“And yet,” Sherlock snapped, “I just accurately predicted every question you had at the start of this conversation.”

“And yet,” John countered, mockingly imitating Sherlock’s confident tone, “Dr. Moriarty has accurately predicted every step you and Mycroft have made so far. What makes you think he won’t again?”

“Because this isn’t the Holmes’ brothers’ typically well-thought-out, comprehensive plan where nothing is left to chance, John. You’re right. It’s reckless and dangerous and will likely fail on many levels. But as long as it frees Molly, the objective will have been accomplished.”

“Yes, but at what cost?”

Sherlock scoffed. “Now you sound like Mycroft.”

“No,” John debated. “I sound like _you_. Well, the you from before.”

“Before? Before what?”

“Before you started living with Molly.”

Their gazes locked. The statement was a punch to Sherlock’s abdomen, knocking the air out of him as well as a good bit of the bravado he’d been painstakingly building up. He hated every logical word coming out of John’s mouth, hated him more not just because he was likely right, but because how dare he discuss benefits and costs as if losing Molly was something anyone should be willing to risk losing. If she wasn’t the greater good, who was?

Unable to dwell on this anymore, he asked, “Do you understand your role once Molly’s free?”

John opened his mouth as if to say something else. Just as quickly, he snapped it shut. Exhaling loudly through his nose, he said, “Get her to Mary, stay with them, and keep hidden until we hear from Mycroft.”

“Excellent.” Shoes on, Sherlock stood and walked across to the mirror on the wall.

“And what am I supposed to tell Molly when you’re dead?”

His halted mid-stride. A riot of emotions snarled within him, but he quickly tamped them down. _There’s no time for this._ “Tell her …” He took a deep breath and released it quickly before continuing on his way. “Tell her I’m sorry … for everything.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

John opened his mouth as if to say something else, but quickly decided against it. The longer the quiet hush in the room lingered, the more it became apparent that his former flatmate was using the silence to make his disappointment well known. Intent on ignoring this ploy, Sherlock picked up a nearby comb and set about trying to bring order to his unruly and damp hair. When he got as far as he could with phase one, he moved on to re-enforcements.

John declared, “You have more hair product than most women I know.”

“I take it you know a better way to define the curl and avoid the frizz then?”

Such an ultra-feminine question left the former soldier stumped. Sherlock enjoyed this small victory as he brought his curls to heel. At long last, he was satisfied and stepped back.

“You could get a haircut,” John blurted out.

Sherlock glanced over. “All that time and that’s the best retort you could come up with?” He shook his head in mock dismay, a smirk curving his lips. “You’re slipping, my friend.”

“Yeah? Well, you just spent ten minutes fussing with your hair. What’s that about? Got a date later?”

“Yes, with a professor.” Sherlock rolled his eyes again when John continued to seem confused by the care he was taking with his appearance. “This,” he said, gesturing to his outfit and hair, “the coat … all of it. It’s expected. I’m Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes has an international reputation.”

“So? Since when do you give a toss about that? You hate when I blog about you. You hate the press. And as much as you love everyone knowing how brilliant you are, you hate the public spotlight.”

“This isn’t about the spotlight, John. I’m going into battle. This,” he said, gesturing again, “is my armor.” He pointed to his brain. “And this is my sword. To show up otherwise is to give my opponent the sense that I do not take this seriously or that I am unprepared.” He straightened his shoulders and looked at himself in the mirror. “This may very well be my last battle. I take that very seriously, and I _will_ go into it as prepared as I can be. Do you understand?”

As the full weight of this statement seemed to settle in, John’s shoulders slumped. “I-I-I’m not going to be able to talk you out of this, am I?”

Sherlock shook his head, unable and unwilling to look over at the one man he esteemed more than any other. “You’re not the only soldier with a duty here, you know. You never have been,” he softly replied.

Out of his peripheral, he saw John nod in defeat. “I’ll tell Molly what you said and that you did what you thought was best. I promise.”

Like beasts fighting to be free of their cage, his emotions welled as a vision of Molly swam before his eyes. “Thank you.”

Forcing it all away, Sherlock focused himself. Finally, when his tightly-held control was once again firmly in place, he noticed something else. _Dear Lord. Not now._

He stared at his reflection longer than necessary, acutely aware that John was still near the door, breathing hard like he always did when he was about to make one of his grandiose emotional overtures.

Sherlock turned about, intent on getting his jacket. Before he could make it across the room, however, John moved to block his path. The former soldier stood straight as an arrow, even as the muscles in his face worked as he fought to verbalize his thoughts.

It was another gut punch, one he could ill afford. Sherlock said, “John, I need to finish get—”

“No.”

“Yes, it’s imperative I ready myself mentally for—”

“No, there won’t be another—” He stopped himself, as if he might break down if he continued. Then, he exhaled heavily and said, “Sherlock …” John cleared his throat, once more collecting himself.

A heavy feeling of awkward distress closed over the consulting detective, who decided he would rather be roasting in the pits of Hell than enduring this conversation right now. “There’s no need to—”

“Twice.”

That stopped Sherlock short. “Twice?” he repeated in confusion. _What did that mean?_

“Twice now you have gone off to face certain death—all in the name of protecting the lives of those closest to you.” He paused, collecting himself a moment before derisively adding, “Of course, with those previous times, you didn’t bother to let me in on the plan.”

“And, given your current leanings towards overreacting,” Sherlock retorted, “I must say that’s proved to be a wise decision.”

“Shut up,” John snapped. “I see what you’re at. Don’t you know that? I’m going to do this, Sherlock Holmes, and no amount of inappropriate flirting, sarcasm, or attempts to bait me into punching you and storming out of the room are going to put me off. Got it?”

Sherlock chuckled. He couldn’t help it. John had come a long way in their time together. Being able to call him out so accurately was undeniable proof of that. _You’re progressing nicely, Watson._

“Got it?” John prodded. “I can’t … You can’t … Not without …”

Sherlock’s humor faded. After all, John was right. If events went badly—and they likely would—there were things that needed to be said between them. These were the same things he’d tried to convey before he’d stepped on a plane bound for Eastern Europe all those many months ago, but hadn’t had the courage to follow through on. He stared at his best friend, the man currently seeming to hyperventilate and choke at the same time as he fought to compose himself. Still, no matter how much this nearly killed him, John Watson would get what he wanted to say said.

 _He has far more courage than I ever will_ , Sherlock thought. He sighed, tensing as he prepared for what was sure to be the most grueling minutes of his life—keeping in mind that he had once been beaten within an inch of his life in the bowels of Serbia.

“All right, John,” Sherlock said. “Go ahead. Get it done.”

The older man nodded shakily. There was a bit of silence. Sherlock knew this was because John was working out just the words he wanted to use, a true writer to the very end. No doubt, he would detail how much he cared for the consulting detective and how appreciative he was of their friendship and the work they’d done together. He would likely go on and on about how he would never forget Sherlock and make some ridiculous promise to always consider him his best mate.

But, in the end, the doctor did none of those things. No, after all these years together, his first and closest friend, blogger, and crime-solving partner managed to convey his complicated emotions in a concise, unexpected, completely nonverbal way: With a hug.

As John’s body collided with his in this overly-effusive show of sentiment, Sherlock could do nothing but grunt and rigidly maintain his balance. “Shocked” didn’t appropriately convey what he felt in that instant. The only thing he could do was breathe and blink. He blinked and then blinked again. He could only remember being so mentally paralyzed twice in his life. Once, when John has asked him to be his best man and again, when he was told he would be godfather to little Abby. Once more, his mind was unable to process the information being received or handle the honor of being so loved for who he was. Honestly, it was something he would never understand. After all, if sentiment was a chemical defect, experience had demonstrated on more than one occasion that loving Sherlock Holmes was a catastrophe waiting on a place to happen.

John, shuddering against him, tightened his hold on the taller man’s waist and buried his face against his chest. “Don’t you dare die on me, Sherlock,” he hoarsely said. “I can’t lose you again. I just … can’t. I made you a promise. Now it’s your turn.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure what it was, but, like an unexpected slap to the face, something snapped him back into himself. Almost as if on their own accord, his arms went about the shorter man’s shoulders, pulling him closer.

“One should only make promises they can keep, John. I made that rule for myself as a child. Can’t break it now.”

“Sherlock,” John warned, half growl and half sob.

It was too much. All of this was. Sherlock awkwardly patted his friend on the back and considered lying. He’d lied to John before. Multiple times. Easily. In this case, it would be a kindness more than any real vow. But, in the end, he couldn’t do it. Not now. Not to this man. Not in this circumstance. Maybe not ever again. Thus, he said the only thing he could think to say.

“I-I-I … I will try. I will _always_ try.”


	58. The Valley of Fear

There were many things Sherlock expected to see when communications between himself and Dr. Moriarty were finally opened up via laptop once more. Molly staring back at him was not it.

But there she was, primly sitting in a chair dressed in a soft-looking and overly large pink jumper and a pair of faded denims. Her chestnut hair was pulled back in a loose braid that puffed up at the top of her head, wound down her neck, and peeked coyly over one shoulder. She was wearing more makeup than he was used to, but seemed otherwise OK. She'd lost nearly half a stone, a fact that infuriated him more than it should have.

He could tell when she finally saw him in return. Even though she wasn't all that close to the camera, he could still see her expression. Her eyes lit up, widened slightly, and a becoming rosiness spread over her cheeks. It was how she responded whenever he first happened upon her. Whether she was expecting him or he surprised her, it didn't matter. She always looked at him just like that, an irreverent burst of pure joy. Within moments, she'd rein herself in. But, by then, it was too late. He watched for that joy, secretly reveling in it. In fact, there had been one or two times in the past when he had deliberately gone to Bart's for no other purpose than to elicit the effect—especially after a difficult row with Mycroft or John, a bad case, or just plain boredom. Her expression never failed to gratify him. Amazing. Molly Hooper was always happy to see him. It was an anomaly in a sea of people telling him to piss off. No one had ever been that consistently pleased to see him. Not even his parents. Not John or Mrs. Hudson. No one.

_How did it take me so long to realize she was in love with me? I’m an idiot._

But now was not the time for this. Clearly, the professor was intent on pushing him off center and keeping him there. But even as Sherlock steeled himself against the inevitable appearance of Moriarty, he visually drank in the sight before him. He’d missed her terribly. An ache he couldn’t categorize beat like a drum in his chest. The thought that he would never get to tell her that, would likely never even be in the same room with her again was enough to make him want to tear the world apart. He regretted not giving John more to relay to her when she was finally free, regretted that he hadn’t written her a note, an email, a text or … something. But what could he say? What was there to say? Sentiment wasn’t his area. How could he ever adequately explain … _No, not now. Not ever._

As expected, Molly quickly reined in her emotions. She looked calm and composed. One would never suspect the torturous situation she was in until they looked into her eyes. The fear was there. The longer she looked at him, the more he could see it. The ache in his chest thrummed harder, but so did a fair amount of pride. She was so strong. He couldn’t help but be proud of her.

_Just be strong a little longer, dearest Molly._

She suddenly jolted in her seat, as though hit by an electric current. “Hello,” she said.

“Hello,” he immediately replied, deliberately focusing his gaze on other aspects of the room, anything which might provide clues as to where she was. But this exercise yielded nothing of value.

There was an awkward pause before she spoke again. “Back at Baker Street, I see. Glad you could make it home for this.” There was a pause. “I’ve missed you …” She cringed before adding, “ _Darling_.”

“I wish I could say the same, _Moriarty_ ,” he said. “But how does one miss a pebble in their shoe?”

Molly jolted again and said, the monotone nature of her voice more apparent now, “Come now, Mr. Holmes. Your destiny and mine have been wound together since the beginning of time. I’m the yin to your yang, as it were. You need me.”

Sherlock paused, using the time to just look at her for another moment. Then, he sighed and shook his head, injecting just the right amount of boredom in his tone. “ _You need me or you’re nothing_. _Because we’re just alike, you and I._ Blah, blah, blah.” He threw his hands up in disgust. “The wheel turns and the same spoke comes up again.”

Molly bit back a smile at this. He started to grin back, but quickly forced his rigid façade back into place.

Then, she straightened and said, “Jim was my student.”

“Yes, until the student became the _professor_.”

“Oh, please! He was never that. He could never hope to equal—” Molly stopped, eyes moving about confusedly for a bit. Then, she said, “Touché, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Seemed only fair. You were attempting to push me off center, after all. Perhaps we can now get on to the true matter at hand? Forgive me for saying so, but reproducing your brother’s methods really devalues your own expertise. I expected better from a man of your experience.”

“Indeed, and I do so hate to disappoint.” Moriarty walked into view, standing next to Molly and placing a hand lightly on her shoulder. “How’s this?”

“Perfect. Now we can move to the part where you let my pathologist go.”

Moriarty lifted his hand, brushing the back of his fingers against Molly’s cheek. She winced and began to pull away. Her eyes shifted to the left, and she suddenly stilled. The professor chuckled at her newfound docility and caressed her again.

“Your pet is very intriguing. I’ve enjoyed getting to know her. Such a mix of spirit and timidity. I thought at first that you had not trained her well. But I can see now that you prefer her this way. You’re never certain what you’ll get, are you?” He shrugged. “Well, whatever keeps the boredom at bay, I suppose. I take it you have the item I requested?”

“What do you think?” Sherlock reached into his coat pocket, withdrew the microchip, and held it aloft.

Dr. Moriarty smiled.

“Have one of your men come fetch it and bring her along as well. That was the deal, after all.” He idly twirled the piece in his fingers.

“The _Iceman_ would never agree to so easily part with such an important piece.”

“He didn’t have much choice in the matter.”

“Really? And what did you do to force his hand?”

“I blackmailed him.”

The professor laughed, his mirth heavy and hard.

“Do you agree or not?” Sherlock pressed.

Like the flip of a switch, Moriarty’s humor ceased. He straightened, his face serious and calm. He shook his head slowly, left to right. “ _Careful._ You may have a measure of control over your brother, Mr. Holmes, but you’ll find you have none when it comes to me. Do you understand?”

“What I understand is that I have something you have gone to a lot of trouble to recover.” Sherlock held up the piece, tossing it in the air and catching it. “And yet, when I have offered to return it to you, you wish to quibble over inconsequential things.”

“And what happens when I reclaim my property? What has Mycroft Holmes done to it? Hmmm? Implanted a tracking device of some sort or something else? How am I to be assured that I will not be disturbed by either of you in future? No, I have plans, plans which are very important to me and which must be carried out, and we both know that you’ll never stop looking for me now that you know I do indeed exist.” The professor turned back to Molly, returning his hand to her shoulder. “So, I think I will keep _your pathologist_ with me for the time being. We’ll call her collateral. Then, if you and the elder Mr. Holmes are both _very_ good boys, I’ll let her go … later.”

“That was not our deal.”

“It is now.”

Sherlock gave a tight smile. “As much as I am sure that Dr. Hooper is greatly enjoying your … hospitality, I’m afraid that doesn’t work for me. But, never fear, I have a much better idea.”

One eyebrow lifted at this. “Really? Do tell.”

“Take me instead. That gives you the microchip and keeps me out of the way while you … carry on with your plan. And you can use me as collateral to keep Mycroft from misbehaving. He simply _adores_ me.”

Moriarty sighed in a way that reminded Sherlock of Mycroft when he felt his younger sibling had missed something obvious.

“What?” Sherlock demanded.

 “You underestimate me greatly. Such a disappointment. You? The superior Mycroft Holmes? You’re imbeciles in comparison to me.” He scoffed. “Take you instead? I would sooner take this gun and put it in my mouth.” He brandished a revolver from the pocket of his jacket. “No doubt, the Holmes boys have come up with some brilliant scenario where I take you, lead you—the hero—to my super-secret lair, and you alert your brother, take down my evil empire, and save the day. Nice little fairy tale, but I’m not the late Jim Moriarty, Mr. Holmes. I don’t believe in fairy tales.” He shook his head again. “No, life is not a fairy tale. It’s a chess match. You’re going to give me the microchip, and I’m going to keep Molly … for now. I am in control. You merely have to submit. It’s really that simple.”

“And if I decline?”

“You don’t get to decline. You are not a player here. You are a piece to be moved about the board on command. You’re just too stupid to have figured that out.”

Something niggled in the back of Sherlock’s mind at this, but he didn’t have time to consider it as Moriarty’s eyes shifted left before quickly moving back. Color stained his cheeks as if he were embarrassed, as if he’d given away something he shouldn’t have.

The older man moved quickly, pressing his gun against Molly’s temple. “Tell me, how much is your pet actually worth to you? She doesn’t think you value her all that much, but I disagree. I think she’s your heart, and I did promise to burn the heart out of you if you didn’t stop being so annoying, didn’t I?”

“She’s not my heart. She’s nothing.”

“I think you’re lying.” Moriarty cocked the gun. “In fact, I’m willing to wager quite a lot on it. Let’s see, shall we?” He smirked.

Sherlock eyed his brother off to the side. Mycroft nodded. Sherlock pushed the laptop back on the desk. He placed the microchip on the desk between himself and the computer. “I must admit that chess has never been a game that holds a lot of fascination for me. I much prefer Operation, Cluedo, Checkers, or even cards. I’m actually quite good at poker when it comes down to it. I’ve always been able to spot a bluff, and I think you’re bluffing. Do you know why? Because while I can always get a new pet, I am certain you can’t get a new chip. If you could, you would have already. Oh, no. Whatever plan you have for world domination depends very much on you having this small piece of technology back in your possession. As such, you need this much more than I will ever need Molly Hooper.”

Then, with his usual flare, Sherlock pulled his own weapon out of his pocket: A hammer. He placed it over the top of the chip. “Let her go, or I will smash your beloved microchip—and your plan—to bits.” It was Sherlock’s turn to smirk. “Your move.”

Sherlock noted the fervor that blazed in the professor’s eyes at this, but Moriarty did not lose himself. If anything, he seemed to enjoy this show of one-upmanship.

“You will call me Dr. Moriarty, Mr. Holmes.”

“You will let her go, professor. Tick tock now. This hammer is getting heavy.”

Moriarty pressed the gun further into Molly’s temple, causing her to moan in pain and arch slightly to the right. “I’m not bluffing. You’re the one who’s bluffing. You give me what I want or I kill her. Last chance now. What’s it to be?”

Sherlock eyed Mycroft once more. The older man nodded. Without letting fear hold him back, Sherlock trusted his brother, followed the plan, and repeatedly brought the hammer down on the chip, smashing it to pieces.

“What have you done?” Moriarty screamed. “You—you—”

“I’m not a piece on a chessboard, a hero in a fairytale, or a student in your blasted classroom, professor.” Sherlock reached into his pocket, readying himself for his next reveal. Dr. Moriarty was on the ropes and ready to be managed. _You’re almost free, Molly Hooper._ “I am Sherlock Holmes, and I can tell I have your attention now; so allow me to—”

The popping sound stole the rest of his words. It sounded so innocuous. Having heard a gun go off many times in his life, it was surprising how innocuous it sounded. Sherlock looked up just in time to see blood spurt everywhere. Molly quickly fell away from the professor as the camera zoomed in on the older man still standing beside the now-empty chair.

Sherlock’s knees gave away, and he fell into the desk chair behind him. He blinked. He couldn’t manage anything else. Even breathing felt like a chore. Thought was impossible. So, he blinked and watched what was happening in front of himself as if a bystander to it all. He was sure he heard a shout in the room with him, but he couldn’t imagine who had made the sound. There was a horrific sort of screaming happening in his mind, as if someone were being burned within an inch of their lives, but he was sure he was the only one who could hear it. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see John fall to his knees. He didn’t move his eyes to look at Mycroft. Couldn’t bear to. Suddenly, the noise ended, but Sherlock barely noticed. He merely watched the laptop in front of him. His hand was wrapped around something in his pocket, but he couldn’t make himself remember or even care what it was.

Moriarty breathed heavily, withdrawing a handkerchief from his pocket, he said, “A slight miscalculation on your part, Mr. Holmes. I never bluff.” He dabbed at the blood splattered across one cheek. “Bring in the other one.” This order was made to someone off camera.

Sherlock’s mind wouldn’t process any of this. It couldn’t process anything. _She’s … No, it’s not true. She can’t be dead. Not Molly. That didn’t happen. Moriarty wouldn’t. He can’t. Mycroft wouldn’t. He knows how much I—_ He pulled out the piece from his pocket and dumbly looked down at it, but couldn’t process what he was seeing. A drop of moisture fell on his hand. That was when Sherlock realized it wasn’t moisture at all. It was a teardrop. Who was crying? Then, he knew. It was himself. But even as he acknowledged that he could do nothing to stop it. Every emotion he’d been suppressing came at him like a tidal wave. He could do nothing but sit there, feel every one of them, and cry. _Molly. My Molly._ It was the worst kind of torment he’d ever experienced.

“Tsk. Tsk, Mr. Holmes.”

Agonized, Sherlock looked back up at the screen. “You—you—you—“

“I did warn you,” Moriarty continued, “but you didn’t listen. So you had to be taught a lesson. You cared for her, didn’t you? Oh, yes, you did.” His head cocked to the side as if he were studying him. “Yes, much more than even you were aware of. Amazing.” He gave a laugh. “Looks like the Tin Man had a heart after all, eh?” His humor left as swiftly as it came. Sherlock envied him such control.

Moriarty tossed the handkerchief away. The gun was still in his hand. “But now you’ve taken something very important from me, _Sherlock_. You shouldn’t have done that. Your brother should not have allowed you to do it. There are consequences now, and more than just you will have to pay.”

A young, blond boy of around eleven was crying as he was brought in front of the camera. Tape had been placed over his mouth and his hands were bound in front of him. He’d been crying so much the tears had soaked his cheeks.

“This,” Moriarty said, “is little Lord Andre. His father, as you know, is Earl Denton. Lord Andre has been my guest for quite some time. My first piece of collateral as it were, ensuring that his dear papa would do as he was told. But now, he’s going to be something much more. Get your brother, Sherlock. I know he’s there somewhere, watching. He’s always watching you, isn’t he? Well, he’ll want to see this.”

Like a computer having been rebooted, Sherlock felt his brain come on line. All emotion was swept away; all except the anger. He kept that, pulled it around him like his coat. He gripped the piece in his hand as he charged back to his feet.

“Mycroft isn’t here, and you and I are not done,” he said.

“Really? How so?”

“You might not bluff,” he said, holding the piece up so the professor could see. “But I do.”

Moriarty stared at the sight before him. “Is that …?”

“The real microchip? Yes, it is. And if you kill that boy, you will never get it. I can promise you that. You see, you just made a grave mistake; one that has turned me into the most dangerous man in the world.”

Moriarty smirked again, but there was uncertainty in his eyes this time. “How so?”

“I am a man with nothing left to lose. Want the microchip? Come and get it. It will be with me. Only, this time, I’m not going to come after you. No, you’re going to come to me. Come to Baker Street anytime you like. But, I will warn you, if you send anyone else in your stead, I will kill them and destroy your precious chip. I swear to you that I will. And, unlike Mycroft, I don’t give a toss whether anyone can use this thing. I just want you and me in a room together. That’s all. Take some time to think about it. I’ll be waiting.”

And, with that, Sherlock slammed the laptop closed.

The quiet in the room was painful. Then again, everything seemed painful. Sherlock concentrated on breathing. John approached him, looking pale and wary.

“Sherlock—”

“Not now,” Sherlock said, holding up a hand. He took a second to wipe his face free of tears before moving to the other laptop set up on the other side of the desk. “He’s on his way. Send anyone you like … or don’t.”

“Brother—”

“No, you don’t get to talk. I’m talking right now. John tried to warn me but I didn’t listen. I should have listened.” He stared at the chip in his hand. “This isn’t real, is it? It’s just another damn fake. You’ve had the real one this whole time, haven’t you?” He laughed, mirthlessly. “Of course you have. You would never let a thing like that out of your hands. Well, you got what you wanted. He’s coming here, and I will do everything in my power to kill him when he does. If I don’t succeed, you can deal with him and you’ll need the chip to do that. I won’t have another innocent soul’s blood on my hands. Save Andre. Get the earl to help you. Whatever it takes.”

Mycroft nodded.

Sherlock turned to John. “Get out of here. Go to Mary. Send her the message. She’ll meet up with you. Then, you all just run. Run and don’t come back. You’re not safe.”

“Sherlock, I am not leaving you alone to—”

“I said go. You can’t help me anymore, John! No one can. Anyone who tries just ends up dead. Don’t you see that? She’s—Molly’s—” Sherlock’s voice cracked as he grabbed his former flatmate by the shoulders. But he couldn’t finish. He couldn’t say it. To say it would make it all the more real, and he knew he’d go truly mad then. _Later. There’s later for that._ He stared John down. The doctor stared back at him, not looking away for a second.  He understood. Yes, the doctor understood all too well.

Closing his eyes for a brief minute, Sherlock began again, “You are my best friend, and I have always been grateful for your support and your friendship. But you have a wife, a child, and a landlady to see after. They have to come first. They _have_ to.”

John nodded. “But Moriarty’s coming. I can’t just leave you—”

“You can and you _will_. Mycroft had this place swept for cameras and bugs before we got here. We know the professor doesn’t know anything that we are saying right this moment. He’s not watching this place now—not that we know of anyway. But he’s coming soon, and I can’t guarantee your safety for much longer. Mycroft will bring in his cavalry. If I don’t get the professor, he will. There is nothing for you to do here. Go. Leave now.”

He turned away before John could say anything else.

“Do as he says, John. It’s for the best,” Mycroft said, reminding them both of his presence.

“You’re just going to let him do this … this suicide mission? You’re going to sacrifice another brother to die for the good of Queen and country?” John yelled at the older man on the laptop. “What kind of person are you?”

“One who knew all of this would happen from the beginning. Isn’t that right, Mycroft?” Sherlock said, softly. He let out a bitter chuckle. “Pieces on a chessboard indeed.”

“I told you that you couldn’t save her, Sherlock. I tried to explain—”

“And I told you her life was all that mattered! Nice show back there at the bookstore, though. Letting me think you came up with a brilliant plan. You truly had me fooled. Well played.”

Silence deadened the room, heavy with all the things which were between the two brothers but had never before been said. Things that couldn’t be said now, could never be said ever.

Mycroft sighed, looking at his younger sibling with a face full of regret. “I’m sorry. I truly am. But this is for the greater good. One person—no matter how wonderful she was—one person’s life cannot outweigh a country full of innocent people, _countries_ if the professor’s plan comes to fruition. No one would be able to stop him then. You might not see the rationality of it now, but you will. Sentiment is a chemical defect—”

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” Sherlock shouted. “I’m going to kill the professor, Mycroft. It’s the final mission I’m going to take care of for you and for the British government. I’m going to kill that man if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Thank you. I know you don’t understand now, but you will. I _swear_ you will.” Then, as he seemed to realize there was nothing more for him to say, Mycroft bowed his head.

“As long as we’re making vows, there’s something you should know,” Sherlock said, causing the older man to look back up in alarm. “When I am done with the professor, I’m coming for you.”

Mycroft looked pale and confused. “Pardon?”

“Take this time. Prepare yourself. _Hide,_ if you think you can. Because when the professor is dead and the world is saved from evil once again, I’m going to turn every bit of energy and acumen I have to finding and killing you. Nothing will stop me. Do you understand? Not Mummy, not Father, not rationality, not sentiment or familial bonds. _Nothing_.”

And, for the first time in Sherlock’s life, he saw true and unadulterated fear enter Mycroft’s expression. It should have given him some relief from the agony he’d been feeling, but it didn’t.


	59. Seeing Is Believing

Sherlock slammed the second laptop closed. Closing his brother off so abruptly after vowing to end his life should have given him a measure of relief or satisfaction. It didn’t. It merely increased his anger. He’d never experienced this level of rage before. He’d seen it, of course. One couldn’t be in his line of work for any length of time and deal with the kind of criminals he routinely dealt with without seeing it. Experiencing it firsthand, however, was something else altogether. He’d have expected it to be something one couldn’t control, but he felt amazingly calm. Almost too calm. The other emotions from before were still there, but he wasn’t connected to them anymore. It was almost as if someone had injected him with some kind of anesthetic that kept him from being able to feel them. He felt numb—except for the rage. All of this should have worried him, but it didn’t. Instead, it emboldened him. He would not stop until the professor was dead.

 _Not just the professor_ , he mentally corrected. _Mycroft, too._

What happened after that, he didn’t care. What was left to care about?

“Sherlock, we need to—” John began.

Both men swung toward the door as the tell-tale creak of a foot on the stairs sounded behind them, guns pointed outward.

“It’s me,” a familiar voice from the hallway called. “I did that on purpose. I thought it might be best if I gave you all a warning that I was coming.”

Sherlock sighed, dropping his arm. John, meanwhile, gaped at the door in disbelief.

The former soldier closed his eyes, pressing a hand against his forehead in frustration. “Tell me that is not—”

“Your wife?” Sherlock said, barely glancing over as Mary came through the door. “Yep.”

John pointed to her. “Stay right where you are. I’ll get to you in a moment.” He turned to Sherlock. “Where did you get a gun? I’m usually the only one with a gun on our outings.”

“Jealous?” Sherlock gave a sardonic grin. “It’s Mycroft’s. I nicked it. You never know when it might come in handy, and I assumed at some point you would need yours.” He didn’t dwell too much on the irony that he would be likely be using Mycroft’s own gun to murder him. He merely slipped the weapon back into his coat. “You both need to leave now.”

Unfortunately, the couple in question ignored him.

“What on earth are you doing here, woman?” John exploded on his wife.

Mary looked affronted. “Wanna try that again in a different tone?”

“Sorry.” John immediately backed down. Then, seeming to think better on it, he sputtered, “No. I’m not in the wrong. You are. Why are you here? You’re supposed to be protecting Mrs. Hudson and Abby. We agreed.”

“They’re safe. I assure you. I have …” Mary’s voice wavered for a moment as if she were unsure how to answer. Finally, she said, “Associates.”

“Associates? You’re still in touch with _associates_ after everything?”

Mary looked at him, clearly debating whether or not it would be best to lie. Finally, she said, “Yes?”

John stormed over to her side. “You promised, Mary!”

“If I hadn’t done it, you and Sherlock would be dead right now. Do you hear me? Dead. I’m not going to apologize for doing what I needed to do to keep my husband alive. As it is, you’re still in terrible danger.”

This caused Sherlock, who’d gone to look out the window for the soon-to-be-arriving professor or his minions, glanced over. “You know?”

“About your latest convo with the professor? Yes.”

“How?”

“I would think by now you should know that.” She paused a moment, plainly expecting him to continue. When he didn’t, she sighed and said, “You’re not up to your usual aptitude, detective. But, given the circumstances, I think we can let it slide. I wasn’t exactly truthful before when I said I put all of Moriarty’s cameras in the acid. I saved one or two, reprogrammed them, and set them up around the flat. I figured, whatever else was going on, you two would end up back here at some point. I wanted to be ready.”

“Mycroft had the flat swept for—” Sherlock started.

“I’m good.” She grinned. “When I hide a camera, it stays hidden.”

“But—”

“Mycroft’s not the government anymore, which has put a serious dent in his resources. The kind of talent his money can buy might be all right under normal conditions, but this situation is hardly that, is it? No, he needs a heavy hitter and they’re expensive. I don’t care how posh he is. His pockets don’t run that deep. For example, he couldn’t afford me.” The prideful grin on Mary’s face waned as she caught the glare from John. “The point is that I had a friend of mine patch into your laptop just for good measure. I’m excellent at hacking, but she’s much better and she owed me quite a large favor. As such, I saw everything.”

John refused to not have his part in the conversation. “We agreed that you would leave and take care of our daughter,” he growled.

“Which I did, but it was clear then and it is clearer now that you both are out of your depth when it comes to this professor character. He knows what you and Mycroft are going to do before you even do it.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I figured having me around would be an advantage because I introduce the element of surprise.”  

Sherlock slammed his hand down on the desk. “No! Get out of here, both of you. The professor is coming, and I won’t have anyone else hurt on my behalf.”

“Very noble of you, dear one,” Mary said, “but he isn’t coming. He dispatched two of his flunkies about five minutes ago. Once they don’t report back, he’ll send more. He’ll keep sending them until you’re dead.” She shrugged. “It’s what I would do.”

“But the microchip—”

“As I said, he seems to know what you and Mycroft are going to do before you do it. He likely has figured out you don’t have the real chip. No doubt, he’s looking for Mycroft as we speak. I’ve already gotten a message to Mycroft to let him know.”

“How do you even know how to get in touch with Mycroft?” John asked.

Mary gave an affected pout. “Do I really have to go into how good I am again? You’re starting to hurt my feelings.”

“OK. Fine,” John said. “But,” He wagged a serious finger at her, “don’t think for one second I’m not still mad at you about all of this.”

“Oh, please. You know how a _ll of this_ turns you on.” Mary winked, giving him a quick kiss. “But, you’ll have to hold that thought for now. We all need to get out of here.”

 “I’m not leaving.”

“Where are the flunkies now?”

The men spoke at the same time. Mary decided to answer John’s question. “I took care of them.”

“Does that mean …”

“I killed them, John. They were sent to kill you both. What else would you have me do? Please stop being such a girl about everything!” She looked over at Sherlock. “How in the world do you tolerate him on cases?”

Sherlock shrugged. “He has his uses. You, however, married him. No returns or refunds.”

He and Mary shared a smile. This whisper of humor cracked at his calm veneer. The numbness waned ever so slightly. Sherlock grew uneasy. But after a few moments, things became calm once more. The numb, protective bubble slid back in place.

“Where are the men now?” Sherlock asked, knowing what he needed to do. He felt empowered like never before.

“Why? So you can collect enough evidence off them to track down Moriarty?”

 Sherlock nodded.

 “No need for all of that. When I had my associate hack into your laptop, she set a trace for anyone who tried to videoconference in. The professor, of course, was ready for this and had the IP address re-routed to some place in Kenya.”

“So we still don’t know where he is?” Sherlock said.

Mary rolled her eyes.

“How many times does she have to tell you, Sherlock?” John said, wrapped his arms around his wife and pulling her close. “She’s good. She would have made allowances for all of that. Right, darling?”

Mary smiled and cupped his jaw. “I do so love you, John Watson.” She leaned over to kiss him.

Seeing all this tenderness and affection in the room was cutting Sherlock to the quick, reminding him of what he could no longer have. “Where’s the professor?” His voice was gruff with emotion.

Mary looked back at him and, damn her, she saw everything. She stepped out of John’s arms and crossed to Sherlock before answering. “Edinburgh. Our flight leaves in an hour.”

Relief like he’d never felt before flooded him. “Thank you.”

She locked gazes with him, and he felt the numbness wane again. The glorious pain of grief was there, just below the surface, threatening to swallow him whole. He fought with all he had to keep it at bay. Not forever. Just for now. Just until he could finish this. He knew better than to think he could hold it off forever.

“Sherlock—”

He broke away when she reached out to touch him, unable to be so nakedly vulnerable to anyone. He didn’t want her comfort. He didn’t deserve it. “Take your husband and go find your daughter and Mrs. Hudson. Keep them safe. I’m going alone.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” John said.

“We’ve been over this already. You saw what he did to Billy and …” Sherlock shook his head, feeling more tired than he ever had before. He couldn’t even say her name. “Just go.”

“Oh, Sherlock. You’re all mixed up, aren’t you?” Mary asked. She looked at him, her eyes searching for something. “After all that’s happened, you still can’t accept your feelings for her?”

He glared. “Stop it, Mary. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Yes, I do. This fight—this stupid fight you’re putting yourself through—it’s causing you to miss important details. It’s causing you to not be you. It’s why you keep losing. Don’t you see that? Stop fighting it.”

_Caring is not an advantage, dear Sherlock. When will you learn? Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side._

Mycroft’s voice played heavy in his mind—as always. Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to force it away, trying to force it all away.

_All lives end. All hearts are broken._

“Stop it,” Sherlock yelled. “Just stop it now!”

Weight fell upon his shoulders. He knew without opening his eyes that it was her, touching him. Why did they always have to touch him? Why couldn’t everyone just leave him in piece?

“Sherlock, is it truly such a bad thing to love someone?”

“Yes. I …” A hot tear slid down his cheek. “I should have sent her away. It’s … it’s all my fault. I did this because I … Oh my God!” But he couldn’t continue. The tears were too much now. He broke. He sobbed. He raged. Mary pulled him close, whispering words to him that he couldn’t comprehend.

Somehow, through it all, he heard the creak on the stairs. Maybe it was because he’d lived here so long. Maybe it was because 221B always felt as if it were an extension of himself and, as such, he always seemed to know when someone was headed upstairs. Or, maybe he’d merely gotten lucky. Whatever it was, he didn’t think. He looked up, pushed Mary out of the way, grabbed the gun, and fired.

He got the first one and had taken aim at the second when Mary shot the man dead. Where she’d had the gun all this time, Sherlock didn’t know. John got the third. The trio barely had time to look at each other before the window exploded. They hit the floor as a hail of bullets ricocheted around the flat. One by one, they crawled over to the kitchen to take cover.

“Do I get to say I told you so yet?” Mary huffed as she made it to the wall and ducked behind it.

“Is anyone hit?” John asked, ever the doctor.

“No,” Sherlock and Mary yelled back.

Once they’d all made it to through the kitchen, down the hallway, and safely into the bedroom with the door shut, the shooting—as fast as it started—stopped.

Sherlock got to his feet, slipped his gun into his coat, and hastened over to the window. “They’re coming.”

“You think?” Mary flippantly said.

Sherlock ignored this as he opened the window and reached out for Mary. “Well?” he asked. “Let’s go. No time for dilly-dallying. We’ve got a plane to catch.”

John grinned. “Does this mean he’s letting us come?”

“Well, he’s not as stupid as he looks.” Mary pocketed her own gun and took Sherlock up on his offer of a hand to get her through the window.

Once she’d made it through, Sherlock turned to assist John. John glared, affronted by the suggestion. With a shrug, Sherlock hoisted himself through the window, landing on the slanted lower roof which hung over the small back garden. There wasn’t much space, barely enough for the three of them once John managed to get out of the window. Sherlock knew better than to tell his friend that asking for help wasn’t always a bad thing. After all, he did try desperately not to be a hypocrite.

Taking an arm each, the men lowered Mary down as far as they could before letting go. She landed like a cat, rolling back to her feet in no time. Sherlock made a mental note to get her to teach him how to do that sometime. Mary, ever the professional, took her gun back out and started looking around. The sound of sirens could be heard in the distance.

Next, Sherlock lowered John down. Unlike his wife, the former soldier was not a cat in a former life, but he still managed to make the fall with little damage to life or limb. Not wanting to waste any more time, Sherlock slipped over the side of the roof and, dangling for the briefest of moments by one arm, dropped to the ground. He didn’t make the most graceful of landings, but he still managed to escape injury. On his feet again, he heard the distinct noise of the front door being crashed open. Without looking back, the three took off through the garden, down the back alley, and over two streets.

Once they made it into a cab and were on their way to the airfield, Sherlock said, “Where exactly in Edinburgh is he, Mary?”

“Like I’d tell you that. You’d just find a way to leave us behind. You may be blind to what’s in front of you, Sherlock Holmes, but I’m not. I’m seeing this through. You need us.”

Too tired to argue in the face of such rationality, he said, “I take it you have a plan, then?”

“Of course.”

“Care to let me in on it?”

“As soon you admit your feelings for Molly.”

“Mary,” John admonished, “leave off this. Now is hardly the time.”

Mary shrugged. “Seems like the perfect time to me.”

Sherlock frowned. “What difference can it possibly make? She’s … dead.” He said it, but not without great cost. He took a deep breath. “She’s _dead_. Do you hear me? Molly Hooper is dead. We all saw it happen. Feelings won’t bring her back.”

Mary looked surprised for a moment. Then, with a smile that seemed terribly out of place given their current conversation, the blonde sitting across from him shook her head, clearly bemused. "You see, Mr. Holmes, but you do not observe."

It was strange to hear words he had touted to John and others on many occasions used against him. “Really?” Sherlock said, sardonically. “How so?”

“Molly’s not dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come!

**Author's Note:**

> No, I have not watched Season 4 yet. Yes, I know it's been years. I'm stubborn. I said I wouldn't watch until I finished this and I meant it. It might take me 20 years, but I WILL get it done.


End file.
